chapter EIGHT
“Kevin, I’m scared.” I went straight to his half of the duplex when I got home that night and flopped on his couch.
“Then call Ms. Carmen and tell her you can’t take the case after all.”
“I can’t do that. I need the money.” I stood, full of restless energy.
“You know I’ll help you out if you need it. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Vittorio wouldn’t hurt me. He’s a gentleman.” I paced Kevin’s living room.
“But you said you’re scared.” He didn’t put the game controller down, but I knew I had his full attention. He could play video games in his sleep.
“Not like that. I’m scared of the way I’m feeling. I’ve never been affected like this by a man. It’s like, this is going to sound stupid, but you know those movies where the handsome vampire uses his powers to seduce the beautiful young maiden?”
“Yeah.” Kevin covered his mouth, stifling a laugh.
“I told you it was stupid.” I sat back down on the couch, embarrassed for even comparing Vittorio to a vampire. But I didn’t know how else to explain it. I didn’t date much, and a pretty face never impressed me. But Vittorio did. Why?
“Vampires aren’t real, Elena.” Kevin gestured to emphasize his point.
“I know that. But I don’t understand why I’m so attracted to him. I mean, he’s gorgeous, yeah, but it’s not just that. I can’t explain it.”
“I’ll say it again. Call Ms. Carmen and tell her you can’t work the case.”
“And I’ll say it again, I can’t do that. She’s really worried about her daughter. I won’t let her down.”
Kevin sighed.
“I just need someone to talk to, Kevin. I’m not backing out of this case. If I can’t talk to you about this without you jumping all over me, tell me now.”
Kevin opened his mouth.
I cut him off. “And before you say anything, think carefully. You know how rarely I say I need anything from anyone.”
“I was going to say, I’m here for you. I’m sorry, Elena. I worry about you, but if you want me to shut up and simply listen, I will.”
“Good, because that is what I need. That, and sleep, though I’m not sure sleep will be possible.”
I spent the next day researching Vittorio, Samuel, and Porter Enterprises, having regained my wits and skill as a PI.
Vittorio had immigrated from Italy nearly twenty years ago. Bryn hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said he was full-blooded Italian. According to a news article announcing his promotion to Vice President of Human Resources, he had worked hard to gain his position in the company, and earned every dollar of his considerable wealth. He was a social butterfly, and repeatedly made both St. Louis’ and Missouri’s “Most Eligible Bachelors” lists, but I could find no details about his past in Italy.
I ran a background check on him, which showed nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from a few speeding and parking tickets, he was an upstanding citizen. He obtained his citizenship ten years ago.
Samuel’s background check was more interesting. There was absolutely nothing on his police record, not even a parking ticket. It was too clean. News articles hinted at a checkered youth - partying, pot and the like - so I assumed his father had lawyers to expunge any trace of wrongdoing from his son’s record. People with checkered youths and lots of money rarely turned out to be saints, as Samuel’s record showed him to be.
I was about to give up when one last article caught my eye. It showed a color photograph of Samuel and a gorgeous, very Gothic woman. The caption read, “Samuel Porter and companion Elizabeth Hardgrave entering the St. Louis Art Museum for the premiere of the Caribbean Art Showcase.” I wondered if this was the same Elizabeth Ms. Carmen had referred to. I read the article, dated six months ago, to discover the event wasn’t just an opening of a special exhibit but also a fundraiser to help expand the museum.
My jaw dropped at the name of the museum curator. Alexis Carmen. Could this be a coincidence? Doubtful.
I called Ms. Carmen.
“Elena, have you found my daughter?” she asked as soon as I said my name.
“No, but I have a question for you. Do you know someone named Samuel Porter?”
“The name sounds familiar.” She paused. “Yes, I met him once, about six months ago. He was at a fundraiser at the art museum. I work there. He was very interested in a map I lent for the display. He wanted to buy it, but I would never sell it. He threw out some exorbitant numbers, but I don’t need the money, and refused.”
“What was the map of?” I asked.
“It shows the route of one of Ponce de Leon’s lesser known expeditions, and supposedly the real location of the Fountain of Youth.”
“The real location?”
“Most legends say it is in Florida, but other stories put it somewhere around the Yucatan Peninsula and the Gulf of Honduras.”
I wrote that down. “Did you meet the woman he was with that night?”
“No, but I saw him with her later in the evening.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No, I’d never seen her before and haven’t since. What does this have to do with Courtney?”
“Ms. Carmen, are you telling me you didn’t read the articles about the premiere?”
“I glanced at them, but I’m not interested in what reporters have to say about my museum.” She said reporters as if it were a dirty word.
She sounded sincere, so I let it go. “Her name is Elizabeth Hardgrave. Do you think it could be the same woman you overheard your daughter mention?”
“I don’t know, now that you mention it, she did look Goth, yet more elegant than my daughter dresses. It could be, but I really can’t be certain.”
“Thank you, Ms. Carmen. I won’t take any more of your time right now.”