“And another Cairo Flame for Franco, here!” Melrose clapped him again on the shoulder.
66
To her credit, Diane Demorney was not, for once, looking out for number one. She had no designs on Franco Giopinno. Had she at first been a little smitten, that went out the window with San Pellegrino. He was certainly handsome, but not really awfully amusing. Indeed he seemed a bit dry, a bit too literal, and (Diane was certain) a bit too poor.
It was plain as the nose on his well-chiseled face that the man was a fortune hunter, a type of which Diane could hardly disapprove, having been one herself for so long and having been amply rewarded for her troubles by her three wealthy ex-husbands.
Yes, she knew the signs because she knew herself: cool reserve, an excessive desire to please, masked by a certain hauteur (for one couldn’t be seen as a pushover, could one?), but more than anything else-tenacity. And God only knew, Giopinno was tenacious. No man could put up with the ambivalence of Vivian Rivington (who definitely needed to be taken in hand) unless he knew he would be rewarded handsomely.
It was the following morning and the two-Diane Demorney and Franco Giopinno-sat in the little café annexed to the library. Marshall Trueblood’s idea of introducing “Latte at the Library” had been a howling success and had saved the librarian’s goose. Otherwise, the place might just have been closed down for lack of custom, whereas now it was quite abuzz with the stuff.
Two tables away sat Plant and Trueblood; Diane had insisted (out of the count’s hearing, of course), “Leave, or sit by yourselves! Too many of us would look like harassment!” They sat at the corner table, pretending to read a couple of library books.
Diane had made small arrangements herself. One of these had just walked in: Theo Wrenn Browne, the owner of the local bookstore (who’d been behind trying to get rid of the library). When Diane had first settled in Long Piddleton, she’d found Theo Wrenn Browne rather amusing, with his conniving, acerbic temper and relentless attacks on other Piddletonians. But he had fast become rather a bore, for there was no acerbic wit to match the acerbic temperament.
Now, Theo stood in the doorway of the café, looking around in that self-important way of his, as if he couldn’t make out where Diane and Giopinno were sitting (although there were only six tables). Theo was waiting for her to see him. It helped his flailing ego to have her raise her hand and motion him over. She did, he went.
Theo had been told that the count was looking for a solid business investment and was especially interested in books. “A bookshop such as-oh, what is it-Waterstone’s? One of those discount stores.” The count had said this, he had said precisely this, with no further augmentation of the subject by way of his wanting to own a bookstore. They had been talking about reading. Diane avoided it and so (she thought) did he. That was because he talked about it so much. To quiet him, she brought up Henry James. She brought up The Portrait of a Lady. “You remember”-of course he didn’t-“that awful clash of cultures? How the sweet young heiress falls into the clutches of the corrupt Europeans?” Diane truly warmed to this subject. “And that absolutely dreadful husband of hers? They lived in Venice, coincidentally.”
This was the sum and substance of Diane’s knowledge of the Henry James novel. And of the entire James oeuvre. It was simply one of the bits of knowledge she gleaned from reading just a little so she’d never have to read a lot.
Oh! But Franco Giopinno had gone more than a little white when she’d brought that up! Indeed, she considered reading more of this author’s work; James just might be amusing if he could call up such a look of trepidation on Giopinno’s face.
Theo was at the counter getting himself a latte, and Diane called to him to get Count Giopinno another espresso. Looking disgruntled, Theo gave the order. Espresso (she thought) was probably the only thing the count had enjoyed in the last twelve or sixteen hours.
Theo set the little cup before the count; Diane performed the introductions, the count gave his little seated bow and a grazzi, and Theo started in immediately talking about his bookshop. Theo was about as soigné as a skunk, Diane thought, which was the reason for choosing him.
“So, Mr. Giopinno, excuse me, Signore Giopinno, you’re interested in books? I have, you know, the local bookshop called The Wrenn’s Nest-bit of a pun there, you know?-anyway, it’s done extremely well, had a gross of-oh, one hundred fifty thousand pounds this past year, looking to do even better by the end of this year…”
And on and on, with Giopinno looking-well, bemused, at best. He did, however, have silky manners and would never in the world have presented a bored countenance.
Diane, tuning Theo out, glanced at Melrose and Marshall, who had given up all pretense of reading and were leaning as far as they could toward her table, trying to hear. She made a lightning-quick run with her finger across her neck. Immediately they went back to their books. Marshall, she noticed, was reading his upside-down. God.
“… that the area could easily support one of your chain bookshops-not that I’m suggesting we get a Dillon’s, God, no; an independently run big bookstore, that’s the ticket!”
While Theo droned on, Diane waited for Agatha to appear. Diane had told Agatha that the count was interested in investing in real estate; she had suggested using Vivian’s house as an example.
“Why? Vivian’s living in it.”
“Oh, but of course she’ll want to sell it when she moves to Venice.”
Agatha now stood in the cafe’s doorway, and that woman was with her, that estate agent from Cornwall. All the better. Diane waved and smiled.
Theo Wrenn Browne excused himself and took his empty cup up for a refill. He detested Agatha except on the occasions she was useful to his cause. His biggest cause was getting rid of Miss Ada Crisp so he could expand his quaint little bookshop.
The two women hurried over to the table as if real estate deals were falling from the ceiling and were introduced to Franco Giopinno. Graciously, he rose and made a brief hand-kissing movement and sat down again, looking extremely unhappy.
“Well, now, Franco,” said Agatha, never the one to stand on ceremony or good manners. “You’ve got a marvelous property turnover here, and it’s wise to consider an investment. Vivian’s house, for instance, is better got rid of than kept. It’s high-end, not practical with all that thatch, which clearly needs re-thatching; in a little place like this-well, there’s not much call for such properties, and if one needs the money-”
A look at the count’s face made it clear one did.
“-the wise thing to do is sell up and put the money in other properties.”
“God!” exclaimed Theo Wrenn Browne, who’d returned with his fresh cup of cappuccino. “Property’s a hell of an investment these days. You don’t want property, count, you want-”
“I beg your pardon-Mr. Browne, is it? You own that sweet little bookshop?”
Theo fumed. “Sweet” and “little” was not the picture he was trying to get across. “I’m expanding, got to, what with all the custom-”
“To where?” asked Agatha, shaking with manufactured laughter. “You lost out on Ada Crisp’s place next door. Shouldn’t have started that lawsuit, it only made you look bad.”
Considering it was Agatha’s lawsuit, Diane reflected on the shortness of the memories and the division of the loyalties of some of these people.
Esther Laburnum picked up with what she’d been about to say to Theo. “You’re quite wrong to think real estate a poor investment; it never is. You just have to know what you’re doing.”
As with anything, thought Diane. Blowing a curl of smoke into the air, she saw the awful Withersby woman leaning up against the counter and talking the ear off little Alice Broadstairs. Mrs. Withersby charred here occasionally. She fit the cohort and property category to a T. Now if she could only fit the woman in.