Page 5 of Murder at Christmas

Comprehension dawned. Aquila Sports was one of the most famous manufacturers of everything to do with winter sports, from skis and boots to jackets and gloves. This seemed like a very logical spot for them to have a home, but I wondered what the connection with Selena might be – and by extension to Anna and me.

As instructed, I headed along the corridor with Oscar and his new monster buddy trotting at my heels. A door at thefar end led into a long, bright room with an array of floor-to-ceiling windows and doors looking out onto the surrounding mountains, their summits now tinted a deep red as the sun set. All around the walls was a charming frieze of alpine flowers, while two massive glass chandeliers, almost certainly from the Venetian island of Murano, illuminated the large area. More pine branches added to the Christmassy feel and a huge fir tree hung with glittering ornaments and twinkling lights reached to the ceiling and completely filled one corner of the room. I saw Oscar immediately eye it with interest, but I tapped him gently on the ear and shook a warning finger at him.

‘No, Oscar, that’s a Christmas tree. It’s for humans, not dogs. Leave it alone.’

He gave the canine equivalent of a resigned shrug and returned his attention to the people in the room. There was a hum of cheerful conversation in the air and, at first sight, it all looked very sociable. The noise subsided as Selena made the introductions.

‘This is Anna, and her husband, Dan, with Oscar, the smartest Labrador on the planet. They’re my best friends here in Italy.’

Suppressing a smug little glow of satisfaction that this internationally recognised celebrity should have described us as close friends, I waved in the general direction of the group standing at the end of the room alongside a fully fitted bar. Instinctively, I gave them a quick appraisal. I counted ten people standing beyond Selena and Anna, some with drinks in their hands – five men and five women. My initial reaction was one of surprise and a mixture of disappointment and relief because I didn’t recognise any of the faces. Clearly, our fears that the house might be packed with Hollywood folk were groundless. On reflection, this was probably for the best. As I knew from myprevious experiences with big names from the world of cinema, they could sometimes be hard going.

‘Dan, Anna, let me introduce you to our host.’

Selena waved me over to where she was standing by a suave-looking man, maybe four or five years older than me, say in his early to mid-sixties. He had an immaculately trimmed moustache, bushy eyebrows, and suspiciously dark hair. He was wearing a perfectly tailored brown and green tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows that could have come straight out of a copy ofHorse & Houndmagazine. Beneath the jacket was one of those olive-green and white check shirts that posh British people wear in the countryside, finished off with a tartan tie. He was either a member of the British upper classes or he was doing a pretty damn good impression of looking like one. He appeared opulent and poised but not relaxed. The dark shading below his eyes and the worry lines at the corners of them made it all too clear to me that Selena hadn’t been exaggerating. This man was seriously worried about something.

Selena made the introductions. ‘This is Bartolomeo Viviani. Bartolomeo, let me introduce Anna, who knows everything there is to know about the Medici family in Florence, and her husband, Dan, who writes murder mysteries.’

I couldn’t help noticing that Selena had introduced me to the assembled group as a writer, rather than a private investigator. Although technically, I was both, I had written only three books so far – two of them already published, and one coming out in the new year – but the private investigation agency was what paid the bills. Had skipping over my day job been a deliberate choice on Selena’s part and, if so, why? Didn’t she want the people here to know my true occupation? Not that I minded. Over the years, I’ve often found that when people hear that I’m a detective, it can spoil the atmosphere, so I was happy to go along with her description of me as an author.

‘Dan, welcome. I’m delighted you and Anna could come and join our little party. Hopefully, it’s going to be a most pleasant week.’ Our host shook my hand and raised Anna’s to his mouth to kiss it, like a scene from a bygone era, leaving his lips in contact with her skin for a bit longer than necessary. She actually blushed; I suppressed a frown and saw what might have been a momentary look of disapproval flit across Selena’s face. It looked as though our host fancied himself as an ageing Casanova, and I wasn’t the only one to be suspicious of him. I saw Oscar give him – and then me – a puzzled look. Bartolomeo Viviani had addressed us in fluent English, albeit with a distinct Italian accent, and I answered in my own language. If he was happy to speak English, that was fine with me – so long as he kept his hands off my wife.

‘It’s extremely kind of you to invite us into this lovely house.’ Swallowing my annoyance – for now – I affected an air of bonhomie. ‘Have you lived here long?’

He smiled and opened his arms helplessly. ‘Lived here? If only. This is my refuge away from the world, but I only manage to get here for a few weeks every year, more’s the pity.’ Taking Anna by the arm, he pointed across the room. ‘Now, do come and let me introduce you to my other guests.’

There was no mention of a partner or wife and, as far as I could tell, Selena was also unaccompanied, so might this mean what I thought it meant? If so, I had a feeling she was going to have to keep her eyes on an old womaniser like this one. Still, I told myself, she had probably eaten flashier Don Juans than him for breakfast and was well able to look after herself. I’ve always had an inquisitive streak and I would have loved to ask the nature of their relationship, but – probably wisely – I stayed off the subject for now. No doubt I would find out in the fullness of time.

The first guests to whom Bartolomeo Viviani introduced us looked as if they were about half my age, and the physical resemblance between the young man and our host was unmistakable.

‘Anna, Dan, let me introduce my son, Orlando, and his beautiful wife, Fiona.’

He was right about her being beautiful, and I noted that Oscar immediately gave up nuzzling Selena and transferred his attention to Fiona, who appeared delighted to be on the receiving end of a friendly canine greeting. She bent down and fondled his ears as he leant against her leg.

‘What a handsome dog. My mum and dad have always had Labs, and he reminds me so much of Angus, my constant companion when I was growing up. What’s his name?’ She had a lovely soft Highland Scottish accent and a friendly face, although I sensed an undercurrent of melancholy below the surface that I wouldn’t have expected to find in someone her age. What, I wondered, might she have to worry about? The same thing as her father-in-law?

I shook her hand and introduced Oscar by name before turning my attention to her husband. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Orlando.’

He reached out, mumbled, ‘Good afternoon,’ in American-accented English, and shook my hand, but it appeared to be a struggle for him to produce a smile. He didn’t look as careworn as his father or wife, but he looked fed up. Was he fed up with us because he felt we were effectively gatecrashing a family party, or was there another reason why he looked less than convivial? Because I’m a detective, and that’s what detectives do, I immediately found myself wondering if his wife’s aura of unhappiness and his less than ebullient attitude might be linked.

I didn’t have time to dwell on the subject as his father was already leading Anna – his hand still on her arm – and me on toother guests, this time a couple who looked like the oldest people in the room, the man maybe in his early seventies. Once again, the family resemblance was strong.

‘This is Umberto, my brother, and his wife, Gloria.’ Did I imagine it, or was there a hint of antipathy in Bartolomeo’s voice – towards the brother, the wife or both of them?

Unlike his brother, Umberto had a bushy white beard, an unruly mass of white hair making him vaguely reminiscent of a picture of Beethoven I had once seen, and his choice of clothing was very different too. He was wearing a chunky white woollen jumper – the sort of thing Scottish fishermen wear in TV adverts – and unmistakably carpet slippers on his feet. Gloria, on the other hand, was style personified. She was probably twenty years younger than her husband, and she looked very elegant with her glossy dark hair and glittering gold earrings. I’m no expert on women’s fashions – or men’s, for that matter – but even I could tell that the ruby-red dress and the gold jewellery she was wearing hadn’t come cheap. Despite her opulent surroundings, she looked far from happy. Just like Orlando, there was little of the Christmas spirit to be seen in her, and I wondered why that might be.

We shook hands, and Umberto shot me an enquiring look. ‘So, you are friends of Selena’s. Are you in the movie business as well?’ He might look like Captain Birdseye, but his eyes were sharp, and his command of English and his Oxford accent with only the slightest hint of Italian lurking in the background were impressive. This was no old duffer by any means. I was about to answer when Selena, at my shoulder, spoke up.

‘We met in Florence a couple of years ago. I was there making a movie, and Dan and Anna were helping with all the historical stuff. Anna teaches Renaissance history at the university. We became close friends because of our shared interests.’

This appeared to satisfy Umberto, but it served only to confirm my suspicion that Selena was deliberately keeping my principal occupation a secret. I didn’t have time to ponder this at length as Bartolomeo was already pointing out another couple, his hand still lingering on my wife’s arm.

The man looked as if he was in his mid-forties, his wife probably still in her thirties. They were looking a bit stiff, not completely at ease. The man was wearing a formal dark-blue suit, collar and tie, and there was what might have been perspiration on his forehead. He looked fit, and I vaguely wondered if the sweat was because he had just come from the gym. His wife was a good-looking woman with long chestnut-brown hair hanging around her shoulders and she, too, was elegantly dressed. Our host made the introductions.

‘This is Calogero Naselli, our Head of Accounts, and a key member of the company.’ In case I didn’t know, he added a few words of explanation. ‘Aquila Sports, you may have heard of us.’

I hastily assured him that, not only had I heard of the company, but I actually owned one of their jackets and a pair of their ski boots.

He beamed. ‘Excellent. Hopefully, you’ll get a chance to use them. They say there’s snow on the way.’ Pointing to Naselli’s wife, he continued. ‘And this is Signora Naselli.’