She shot me a quizzical look. ‘Would you mind if I ask in what capacity you’ve been invited? She told me you’re a guest, butI just wondered whether the fact that you’re a private investigator has something to do with it.’
‘It’s very nice of her to tell you to think of me as a guest, but what she really wants is for me to play the part of a detective in the murder mystery event. Apparently, I’ve been recommended to her by a mutual friend. It’s good to think that thirty years in the murder squad haven’t been for nothing. Tell me, have you been involved with a murder mystery event before?’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘No, but I bet it’s going to be enjoyable. She can be a lot of fun, you know. She’s not an easy person to work for, not because she’s unpleasant – far from it – but because she’s not good at delegating. I ask her if she’s got anything for me, stuff to type up, calls to make, emails to send, or things that she wants me to go and get for her, but she insists on doing everything herself – apart from running errands. She tells me to go sightseeing almost every day, and then in the evenings, we sit down together and talk about what I’ve seen. She’s very keen to keep a low profile over here so she hardly ever leaves the island. I suppose when you’re a household name with such a recognisable face, it’s good to have a private bolthole. She’s multi-talented. Did you know she’s been writing a book?’
‘Really? What sort of book?’
She shook her head again. ‘I haven’t a clue. I’ve never seen it, she never talks about it, she never asks me to do any research for her. I only know she’s writing it because she insists on printing everything off at the end of the day, and I’ve seen the pile of pages. I don’t think she trusts computers to save her work, so she has a printed manuscript that she adds to day by day and keeps locked away in the safe. According to a friend of mine at UCLA, the word on the street over there is that she’s writing a tell-all autobiography, which could be interesting, possibly explosive. After over forty years in the business, I bet she knows all mannerof potentially embarrassing secrets. I’ve been assuming that’s what she’s been writing but, for all I know, it might even be a thriller or a murder mystery.’
‘What about her acting career? Is she still working?’
‘Yes, but not at the moment. She’s taking a few months off, but she’s told me there’s a new series of the Elisa Banbury mysteries coming up. That’s being filmed partly in the UK and partly in the US, so we’ll be heading over there in early September.’ She shot me a little grin. ‘I’m really looking forward to travelling with her – private jets, limos, five-star hotels. It promises to be exciting.’
‘I’m sure you’ll love it, but I’m surprised she isn’t giving you more to do. Maybe that’ll start up when you both go travelling. When she interviewed you for your job, surely she must have given you some idea of what your duties would be?’
She laughed. ‘My interview was a glitzy dinner with her and Claire at The Ritz in London. She talked more about the food and the dress sense – or, rather, the lack of it – of the women sitting around us than about work. In between signing autographs for random people, she told me she’s always had a personal assistant, and as her last PA left at Easter, she wanted a replacement, but she didn’t go into any detail of what she wanted me to do.’
‘Can I ask who Claire is?’
‘She was my tutor when I was at Cambridge and she’s become a close friend. She met Miss Graceland at a drinks do a few months back, and they hit it off. Miss Graceland told her she needed a PA who spoke Italian as well as English. Claire told her she thought I’d be perfect for the job, introduced me to her, and that’s how I ended up here.’
Mary led me on a quick tour of the island, and it was as impressive as she had said. The buildings all around the inside of the massive defensive walls had been completely upgraded andturned into guest bedrooms, along with a gymnasium, a greenhouse and an amazing mini cinema with a massive screen and seating for a couple of dozen people. I followed Mary inside, where she pointed to a businesslike battery of computer equipment.
‘I’ve been coming in here most days; there’s been nothing else for me to do. It’s amazing. She has access to thousands and thousands of films. Think of a movie, any movie, not just one of Miss Graceland’s.’
‘Um… how aboutStar Wars? It’s a classic.’
Mary turned away and punched a few keys on a keyboard. Seconds later, the lights that had come on automatically as we entered the cinema now dimmed all by themselves and the screen came alive. The unmistakable theme music of the film boomed out of speakers all around us and the titles began to roll. It was an overwhelming onslaught on the senses and very, very impressive. We stood there in silence, eyes glued to the screen, for several minutes before Mary hit the keyboard again, the screen went dead, and the lights came back on.
‘Quite something, eh? I may not have much work to do, but I’m going to come out of this job with an encyclopaedic knowledge of every movie ever made – not to mention every episode of the Elisa Banbury mysteries.’
I got back home just after six to find Anna looking worried. I had no doubt that I knew the reason, and it was nothing to do with my trip to Venice. While I repelled the boisterous welcome from Oscar, I went over to Anna and put my free arm around her shoulder.
‘It’ll be fine, Anna. Just you wait and see.’
She turned towards me and kissed me distractedly on the cheek. ‘What if they don’t like me?’
‘Of course they’ll like you. And I’m sure they’ll love Tuscany as well.’
As I spoke, I muttered a silent prayer that the weekend would go smoothly. Anna and I had recently decided to get married, and I had had the bright idea of inviting my parents over from London for a few days so they could meet and get to know Anna. As the day of their arrival approached, I had been starting to question the wisdom of this decision. It promised to be complicated for a number of reasons. Firstly, my mum and dad were both in their eighties, secondly, they had never been to Italy before and didn’t speak a word of the language, and, thirdly, but secretly most importantly, my mother had always had a very soft spot for Helen, my ex-wife. The two of them were still in regular contact, and every time I spoke to my mum on the phone, she insisted on making thinly veiled hints that the very best thing I could do would be to seek Helen out and try to make a go of it again. I had mentioned Anna to her a number of times, but the reaction had normally been little more than stony silence or an occasional grunt. I’m not as stupid as I look and I had thought it wisest not to mention this to Anna. She was worried enough as it was.
‘What about the food? What if they don’t like my cooking?’
Oscar must have heard the concern in Anna’s voice because he dropped back onto all fours, moved over to her side and leant against her leg in a show of canine solidarity.
I did my best to offer support of my own. ‘They’ll love your cooking. I do, and I grew up in the house with them. My dad will eat anything – and he does.’ I decided not to bring up his penchant for jellied eels, hurricane-strength vindaloo, tripe andonions, and worse. ‘Mum’s a little bit fussier, but as long as you don’t use too much garlic, she’ll be fine.’
Anna didn’t look convinced. In fairness, neither was I. I told myself that worrying about it wouldn’t help, so I helped myself to a cold beer from the fridge, poured a glass of white wine for Anna and led her outside into the shelter of my pergola. I had built this shortly after buying the little old house in the Tuscan hills just outside Florence a couple of years ago and I was very proud of my handiwork. It was now almost completely overgrown with a rambling rose, a luxuriant clematis, and two different vines. The result was an aromatic sunshade with bunches of green grapes hanging from it, already beginning to turn darker as they ripened. I sat down beside Anna and dissuaded Oscar from climbing onto our laps as we sipped our drinks and admired the view down over the vineyards and olive groves towards the valley of the River Arno below. It was a charming view, and I never tired of it. I reminded Anna of this in the hope that it would cheer her up a bit.
‘Don’t you worry. Mum and Dad’s flight arrives at six on Friday, so we should be back here around this time, and I’m sure this view and a glass or two of the local wine will blow them away. Anyway, enough about Mum and Dad for now. Let me tell you about where I’ve been today.’
I gave her a brief description of Alice Graceland’s island home – swearing her to secrecy – and she started to perk up. I told her that I would have to go and stay there for a couple of days at the end of the month with Oscar and, feeling sure that she, as a historian, would love Venice, I asked her if she would like to come with me. Alice Graceland hadn’t mentioned whether I could bring a human as well as a canine companion, but I felt pretty sure that if I asked, she would say yes. At the same time, I was slightly hesitantto bring Anna because the last time she had got involved with one of my investigations, she had ended up having to spend a night in hospital with concussion. Although Miss Graceland’s murder mystery weekend wasn’t going to be a real investigation, it came as something of a relief when Anna declined the offer, telling me that she would use the days when Oscar and I were away to go and visit an old friend in the high Apennines, where the temperature would be refreshingly lower than it was likely to be here or in Venice.
After just a ham sandwich for dinner – I was still full from lunch – I took Oscar for a good walk up the hill. As usual, he covered about three times the distance that I did, chasing after sticks and pine cones that I lobbed into the olive groves for him to retrieve. As I walked, I thought back on the events of the day and my encounter with one of the best-known faces on the planet. I had been immensely impressed by how friendly – not to mention gorgeous – Alice Graceland had been, and how at the age of sixty-two, she appeared to be defying, if not reversing, the ageing process. I paused for thought – I was fifty-eight and that’s perilously close to the big six-oh, so it wouldn’t be that long before I, too, entered my seventh decade of existence, but I knew that ever achieving outstanding beauty was a forlorn hope for me. I hoped for Miss Graceland’s sake that the murder mystery weekend would go well. I had distinctly got the feeling that she was trying to prove a point in the face of the predominantly male environment in which she had lived and worked for the last forty-five years. Hopefully, I would be able to play my part in helping her achieve this.
5
WEEKEND WITH THE PARENTS
