“I read about your father in the papers, Anna darling. I’m so sorry, my love. What can I do? Do you need anything from me? I’ll get on the next plane.”
No, you won’t, she thought. She’d call Marco in the morning, after she finished with the lawyer. With a bit of luck, she’d get his machine and be spared the indignity of having to hear his voice in real time.
The third message was from Fiona Richardson. Fiona was the only person in the world Anna trusted completely. Each time she had stumbled, Fiona had been there to pull her back onto her feet. “Are you home yet, Anna? How was the funeral? Perfectly awful, I’m sure. They always are. I’ve been thinking about Venice. Perhaps we should postpone it. Zaccaria will understand, and so will your fans. No one can be expected to perform so soon after something like this. You need time to grieve, Anna-even if you did despise the old bastard. Call me.”
She would not be postponing her recital in Venice. She was surprised Fiona would even suggest it. She had canceled two coming-out appearances already. There had been rumblings in the press and among orchestra masters and concert promoters. If she canceled a third, the damage could be irreparable. She’d call Fiona in the morning and tell her she was going to Venice in two weeks.
The final message: Fiona again.
“One more thing, Anna. A very nice gentlemen from the Israeli embassy stopped by the office two days ago. Said he wanted to contact you. Said he had information about your father’s death. He seemed perfectly harmless. You might want to hear what he has to say. He left a number. Have a pen?”
Fiona recited the number.
CARLOS had laid a bed of olive wood in the fireplace. Anna set the kindling alight and stretched out on the couch, watched the flames spreading over the wood. In the firelight she studied her hand. The flickering shadows set her scars in motion.
She had always assumed the death of her father would bring some sort of inner peace-closure, as the Americans were so fond of saying. To be orphaned seemed more tolerable to Anna than did the alienation of estrangement. She might have been able to find that peace tonight if her father had died the usual death of an old man. Instead, he had been shot to death in his home.
She closed her eyes and saw his funeral. It had been held in the ancient Fraumünster church on the banks of the Limmat. The mourners looked like spectators at a shareholders’ conference. It seemed that all of the Zurich financial world was there: the young stars and financial sharps from the big banks and trading houses, along with the last of her father’s contemporaries-the old guard of the Zurich financial oligarchy. Some of them had been there twenty-five years earlier for her mother’s funeral.
As she had listened to the eulogies, Anna found herself hating her father for being murdered. It was as if he had conspired to commit one final act to make her life more painful. The press had dredged up stories of the Rolfe family tragedies: the suicide of her mother, the death of her brother in the Tour of Switzerland, the injury to her hand. “A Family Cursed” was the headline in the Neue Züricher Zeitung.
Anna Rolfe did not believe in curses. Things happened for a reason. She had injured her hand because she had been foolish enough to stay on the ridge when the sky turned black with storm clouds. Her brother had been killed because he had deliberately chosen a dangerous profession to spite his father. And hermother… Anna did not know exactly why her mother had killed herself. Only her father knew the answer to that question. Anna was certain of one thing. She had killed herself for a reason. It was not the result of a family curse.
Neither was her father’s murder.
But why was he murdered? The day before the funeral she had endured a long interview by the Zurich police and by an officer from the Swiss security service named Gerhardt Peterson. Did your father have enemies, Miss Rolfe? Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm your father? If you know any information that might assist us in our investigation, please tell us now, Miss Rolfe. She did know things, but they were not the kind of things one tells the Swiss police. Anna Rolfe had always believed that they were part of the problem.
But who could she trust?
A very nice gentlemen from the Israeli embassy stopped by the office two days ago. Said he wanted to contact you.
She looked at the telephone number Fiona had given her.
Said he had information about your father’s death.
Why would a man from Israel claim to know anything about the murder of her father? And did she really want to hear what he had to say? Perhaps it would be better to leave things as they were. She could concentrate on her playing and get ready for Venice. She looked at the number one last time, committed it to memory, and dropped the paper onto the fire.
Then she looked at the scars on her hand. There is no Rolfe family curse, she thought. Things happen for a reason. Her mother killed herself. Twenty-five years later, her father was murdered. Why? Who could she trust?
He seemed perfectly harmless. You might want to hear what he has to say.
She lay there for a few minutes, thinking it through. Then she walked into the kitchen, picked up the receiver of the telephone, and dialed the number.
9
THE ROAD to Anna Rolfe’s villa wound along the shoulder of a hill overlooking the Atlantic. Sometimes the view was hidden: now by a stand of fir trees; now by an outcropping of smoke-colored granite. It was late afternoon, the sun was nearly touching the horizon, the water was the color of apricot and gold leaf. Giant rollers pummeled a narrow sand beach. When Gabriel lowered his window, cold air filled the car, heavy with the scent of the sea.
He turned toward the village, following the instructions she had given him. Left after the Moorish ruins, down the hill past the old winery, follow the track along the edge of the vineyard into the wood. The road turned to gravel, then to dirt and matted pine needles.
The track ended at a wooden gate. Gabriel got out and pulled it open wide enough to allow the car to pass, then drove onto the grounds. The villa rose before him, shaped like an L, with a terra-cotta roof and pale stone walls. When Gabriel killed the engine, he could hear the sound of Anna Rolfe practicing. He listened for a moment, trying to place the piece, but could not.
As he climbed out of the car, a man ambled up the hillside: broad-brimmed hat, leather work gloves, the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He patted the dirt from his gloves, then removed them as he inspected the visitor.
“You are the man from Israel, yes?”
Gabriel gave a small, reluctant nod.
The vineyard keeper smiled. “Come with me.”
THE view from the terrace was remarkable: the hillside and the vineyard, the sea beyond. From an open window above Gabriel’s head came the sound of Anna Rolfe’s playing. A housekeeper materialized; she left coffee and a stack of week-old German-language newspapers, then silently disappeared into the villa. In the Neue Züricher Zeitung he found an article on the investigation into Rolfe’s murder. Next to it was a long feature piece on the career of Anna Rolfe. He read it quickly, then set it aside. It told him nothing he did not already know.