was the most frustrating —” began Liz Falla.
“Signor! Signorina! A moment of your time?”
A figure was approaching them down the long stretch of corridor with the bravura and élan of a luxury ocean liner, the floating skirt of her gown creating an ivory wake around her.
“Wow! Adriana Ferrini!” breathed Liz Falla, star-struck.
“Yes! That’s me!”
Ferrini’s rich laugh preceded her. She was dressed as if for a garden party in a floor-length chiffon and satin creation, her sumptuous mouth, flashing eyes, and almond skin perfectly made-up, her bronze-tinted hair arranged in carefully casual disarray around her internationally celebrated face. Where the marchesa wore gold so heavy it still bore the appearance of the nugget from which it came, Adriana Ferrini’s choice of ornamentation was diamonds, sparkling imposingly in her ears and against the luminous satin of her gown.
The door of the marchesa’s sitting room opened.
“Adriana. I was just about to ring for —”
“Donatella darling, I must speak to these two officers. Later.”
Moretti’s sixth sense, numbed by the previous half-hour’s stonewalling, sprang to life. Standing between the two women, he could almost feel the animosity vibrating in the air as they exchanged their apparently innocuous banalities.
“My suite is on the next floor, officers — we could talk there.”
Adriana Ferrini occupied a splendid set of rooms that faced the front and one side of the villa. The windows of her sitting room overlooked the far end of the long terrace, well away from the scene of Toni Albarosa’s murder, and the noise, bustle, and lights of the film set. Motioning them toward two brocade-covered gilt chairs by a low marble table, she sat down on a matching sofa opposite.
“Would you prefer to speak in Italian?” Moretti asked.
“Of course, I heard you were fluent. No, no. I’ve spent much time in America. It would be better for the signorina, I think?”
The marchesa and the actress were built on the same scale — imposing women, with strong bones, long legs, and generous breasts. But there the resemblance ended. Where the marchesa’s dark eyes suggested banked fires kept rigidly under control, only to erupt in anger when she felt threatened, Adriana Ferrini’s emotions constantly bubbled to the surface during the course of the interview, her body moving to the rhythm of her mood, her hands constantly in motion. If ever, thought Moretti, one wanted to show Chief Officer Hanley the difference between a Neopolitan and a Florentine, one would only have to place the two women side by side.
“So,” she began, “is it a compliment or an insult that neither of you have interviewed me yourselves?”
Before either Moretti or Liz Falla could respond, she threw her head back and roared with laughter, tossing her meticulously tousled mane of bronze hair. Even the lobes of her ears were magnificent.
“Am I not a suspect?”
“In a murder investigation,” Moretti replied, “everyone without an alibi is suspect. But you are certainly not at the top of our list. We have, of course, read your statement. You asked to speak to us — is that because you wish to add to that statement?”
The amusement left Adriana Ferrini’s face as swiftly as it had appeared, to be replaced by what looked like apprehension. “Do police officers give any importance to feelings, forebodings — what I can only call atmosphere? I cannot add any facts to my statement, but I need to give you my impressions.”
Liz Falla thought of Moretti’s instructions to her that morning and her own chilly frisson in the manor lodge, smothered as swiftly as it had been born.
“Impressions, Signora, can be crucial to an investigation. In my experience, women are particularly good at picking up the clues that lie in a smile, a frown, the way someone looks at someone else,” Moretti replied.
Like whatever it was I sensed between you and your hostess, he thought to himself.
“I’m glad you feel like that. Because, even before Toni was killed, I had the feeling something was going to happen. Behind all this, someone is pulling the strings — only I don’t know why.”
“Pulling the strings — are you talking about the changes in the screenplay?”
“Among other things. When we first arrived here, everything was sweetness and light, but that has changed. I really don’t know what Mario is up to, or why. Movie scripts get rewritten all the time, as I know only too well, but there is a feeling of — oh, I don’t know — a hidden agenda to these changes. Mario and I were good friends, then he hit a bad patch, and now he’s pulled out of it. Or so I thought. His wife is a lovely person, and he had everything going for him again.”
“Have you asked him about the changes?”
“Yes. He talks about creative freedom and so on and so forth.”
“Perhaps that’s what it’s all about.”
“Look, Signor.” Adriana Ferrini leaned forward, hands on her knees. “I’m not a member of any artistic elite. I’m not a contessa or a principessa or a marchesa. I come from peasant stock, and I came up the hard way. Now I have diamonds and furs, and homes in three countries, but I also have my sound peasant common sense. I know soft soap when I hear it, and bullshit when I smell it.”
“So,” said Moretti. “Give us your theory, Signora. Use that sound peasant common sense of yours. What, in your opinion, is the hidden agenda?”
“Family.” It was said firmly, without hesitation. “Mario is under pressure from someone in the Vannoni-Albarosa family to make changes to the script — and now you’re going to ask me why, aren’t you? Well, I don’t know. But if I had to put my money on anyone, it would be on Donatella. She spends a great deal of time with Mario and Monty Lord, apart from general get-togethers at mealtimes and cocktails and so on. She is manipulative and cold — a combination I detest.”
“Then why are you staying here?”
“Because I can get more privacy. Not that anyone on your island has bothered me, but a few paparazzi appeared on the hotel doorsteps and were disappointed. Besides, the atmosphere has changed since I arrived.”
“Then who do you think murdered Toni Albarosa — and why?”
“Why is easier. He was two-timing a member of the Vannoni family, right here at the manor. Who? Donatella? Gianfranco? Giulia?”
“Signora —” Liz Falla’s tone was tentative, until Adriana Ferrini turned and smiled at her. “We were under the impression the marchesa was unaware of her son-in-law’s affair.”
Adriana Ferrini snorted and tossed her head. “Monty is such a romantic — he told you that, didn’t he? Donatella has the poor naive man believing she is in need of protection from the wicked world, when it is Monty who should watch out for his virtue, and his heart.”
“In your opinion,” Moretti asked, “has the film been compromised? Is it in jeopardy? Is someone trying to stop it being made?”
“Are
