Chad waited a few minutes to see whether the Boss might be coming back. When he realized he was not, he ran silently to where he’d seen the door. He grappled with the ivy but could not get it to move. For all intents and purposes the door did not exist.
Chad wondered if the Boss could be holding Verity captive there. But why would he? He was a well-known philanthropist, a man of the world, businessman supreme. The Boss could call the shots, have almost any woman he wanted; many women at his own party tonight would have been only too delighted to share his bed, share his fame, his glamour and his money. Yet if there was one thing Chad had learned it was that appearances could be deceptive. Money did not make a man. A man was where he was born, how he was raised. In the end that was what he was.
The door to the bunker was suddenly flung open. Chad slid deeper into the darkness of the trees. The Boss strode out. He slammed the door and locked it behind him, and again the door disappeared behind the ivy. He was no longer wearing his tuxedo. He had changed into a black turtleneck, running pants, and sneakers. As Chad watched, he strode down the slope to the beach and began to jog in the direction of the villa.
For a second Chad wondered if he had gotten him all wrong; could the Boss still be intent on his search for Verity? Was he so concerned he needed to have looser clothing so he could check the farther reaches of the shore, the wilder parts of the extensive gardens himself, though a dozen men had already checked? Yet this was the Boss’s own house, Verity was his guest; she was his responsibility and perhaps he was now taking that responsibility seriously.
From the grassy rise Chad saw the Boss swing up from the beach, then up the steps to the Villa Mara. Chad followed, stopping when he rounded the corner of the villa and saw the assembled video and TV cameras, the pressmen already taking quick shots of the Boss standing there in his special searching-for-the-lost-young-woman outfit.
Unsmiling, the Boss looked into the cameras directed at him. He held up a hand. “I know you are all here for a good reason. Our sole purpose is to find the missing young woman. You will need her name for your reports. She is Verity Real and she was—she is—a guest of Madame Mirabella Matthews at the Villa Romantica.”
“Jolly Matthews’s old place,” someone said, catching a quick picture as the Boss glanced his way.
“Exactly. Mirabella is the late Jolly Matthews’s second cousin. She inherited the property and has recently come to stay, bringing with her, her friend, Verity. Both were guests at my party tonight. The Colonel, who you all know, of course, is now organizing the search so I’m sure you will excuse me. I’ll just let everyone get on with their work.”
He paused, one hand held up in front of him. “One more thing. I am heartbroken that this event has taken place on my property. I feel somehow responsible. I should like to make it known that I am offering a reward for Verity’s return. I am speaking to you all, and possibly to someone here that might have taken her from us. That reward is one million dollars.”
A stunned gasp fluttered through the crowd.
“Of course,” he said, holding up his hand again to stop the buzz of comments. “It is not nearly enough to pay for a life. This young woman is here somewhere. We must save her, we must earn that reward.”
He stepped back out of the lights and made his way down the steps, jogging back along the gravel path to the bunker.
From his place in the shadows, Chad watched him go. It was, he thought, the performance of a lifetime. Either the Boss was a born actor, or he was for real.
29
Mirabella
Later, I was back in my bedroom at the Villa Romantica, still hoping Verity would come through the door, when again I thought I heard someone outside.
I clutched a hand to my chest, holding my breath, afraid any small sound might tell an intruder I was there. Yet if he were an expert intruder obviously he would already know that, and also know I was alone.
So where was my dog? Why had Sossy not rushed barking to my side to alert me? Had the Siamese simply gone back to beautifying herself, licking her paws, washing her velvet ears? And what about that friggin’ canary? Wasn’t it supposed to sing? Tell me the way it told the coal miners in those underground tunnels that there was danger around? Even Chad, who’d gone to get me something as simple as a cup of tea was not here when I needed him.
The cream linen curtains billowed inward in a sudden wind. Somebody must have opened the window. I froze, expecting to see a pair of feet, a shadowy figure.
A small art deco lamp sat on the side table. It had a straight copper base etched with a pattern of wavy lines, topped with a bronze parchment shade.