Marjorie Thelen - The Forty Column Castle

I checked myself out in the mirror and shrieked. I looked like a witch. I took a quick shower, pulled my hair back into a ponytail and brushed on some mascara and blush. That was a bit better. As I was smoothing on lipstick, inspiration struck. In mysteries there was always a hidden staircase. I shook my head. No, that was farfetched. But this was a big house and every time the servants came upstairs did they use that long winding staircase in the main hall? I bet not. I bet they had their own staircase. Why not hidden ones? I started to check around.

The hidden stairs were always in the library in mystery novels. But this suite had no library. However, there was a little alcove in the bedroom that had bookcases. I went to investigate. From the edge of the king size bed, I studied the alcove with the bookshelves and cabinets. There wasn’t much in the way of books. The shelves sported figurines and bowls with Greek designs in gold and black enamel. A rather ornate candelabrum sat in the middle of the bottom shelf, gold of course.

To the side of that cabinet was a floor-to-ceiling louvered panel that matched the white shelves. This panel seemed to have no function beyond mere decoration. I walked over and started pushing the panel, looking for something like hinges or door knobs. I didn’t have long to look. The louvered panel had a recessed hold on the side. I slid the panel to the right and exposed another door that opened to descending stairs.

Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Eureka. The question was, where did the steps go and did they offer any means of escape? Down I went. These were no back stairs in the sense of cement steps and cinder block walls. No, they were polished wood as were the walls, and they had the fragrance of the cedars of Lebanon. Even the back stairs were first class in this palace.

As it turned out, they were not the servant stairs at all. They were stairs to a corridor that led to the patio surrounding the acres of pool I had seen from the roof. Of course, why wouldn’t each room have their own access to the millionaire’s playground?

Beyond the ameba shaped pool, sporting a fountain in the middle, was the beach, the dock, and the yacht. Lounge chairs lined the side of the pool, enough for a cruise ship. Palm trees swayed in the breeze. The black rocks that formed the cliff side of the house gave way to a beach of white sand, bright even in the dimming light. Underwater lights in the pool lit the area. I kept to the shadows and shrubbery around the perimeter of the pool.

Not a soul enjoyed the beauty of the beach area. No one swam in the pool. A breeze off the sea ruffled the palms. The sound of water splashing from the fountain in the pool made me want to jump in. The scene was a good time waiting to happen.

I found it odd that such a gorgeous house had so little activity. It seemed like there should be a crowd of party people having the time of their lives. But no one crowded around the bar with thatched roof at the end of the pool nearest the house. Maybe this was an off day.

Alone, I stood in the shadows watching to see if anyone moved, if anyone came out for an evening swim or to enjoy a cocktail by the pool. Not a soul. Keeping to the shadows, I followed the house, peeking in windows. They were enormous, the kind you’d find in a room with a view, with crank out side windows. A little further on light spilled out a window onto the walkway. I eased along in the shadows toward the light, my black dress helping me blend in. I inched between shrubs, the mulch warm against my bare feet, giving off the heat it had stored up during the day. I stopped short of an open window. A single lamp gave off weak light onto the soft gray of the stone walk.

I ventured a peek in the window. There, reading a newspaper, sat Mr. Bellomo looking like anyone’s favorite Grandpa. He held the newspaper at arm’s length, demonstrating a need to pay a visit to the optometrist for a new prescription. The gold frames of his glasses glittered in the lamplight. Half a glass of red wine sat on the table beside him. The brilliant white hair on his head, worn short and brushed back, was thinning in the back. His fingernails were perfectly manicured. He wore a short sleeve shirt that showed off his tanned arms. He looked like your local friendly golfer on the nineteenth hole.

What mesmerized me was not how he looked, but what he was reading. He was staring at the front page of the English newspaper, the local paper that served the British population. My photo looked out from the front page side-by-side with a photo of my aunt. The caption read “American Tourists Sought in Antiquities Theft”.

Mr. Bellomo knew he was harboring two people wanted by the authorities. One of the two he had personally helped out of prison. He didn’t look surprised or concerned about those photos, but I was. I wanted to talk to those authorities now. I whirled and hurried back from whence I’d come.

I had to get the three of us out. If Mr. Bellomo knew the police were looking for us, and he wasn’t making any attempt to report us, something was terribly, terribly wrong. Now the thought of being in the custody of the police gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

I nearly killed myself tracing my steps back to the stairs, but instead of going to the one to my room, I kept going down the corridor, searching for the door that should be in the wall below the balcony of my aunt’s room. It stood open as had mine. I took the steps two at a time and found the top door closed but not locked. I eased it open and slid the louvered panel door aside.

My aunt was stretched out on the bed, taking a nap.

“Wake up.” I gently shook her, hoping not to scare her.

She mumbled and sputtered, and her eyes flew open.

“Claudie? Where did you come from, dear? Goodness, I was having a bad dream. Someone was chasing me, and I couldn’t get away.”

I didn’t want to tell her that we were living that dream.

“Aunt Elizabeth, we have to leave here as soon as it’s dark.”

“Whatever for? I like it here.”

“I bet you do. This place is palatial, but Mr. Bellomo may not have your best interests at heart. We need to go to the police.”

“But, Claudie, dear, he got me away from the police. Why would I want to go back?”

“Because our photos are on the front page of the newspaper. We could be doing Mr. Bellomo real harm, since it could look like he is harboring criminals.”

“We aren’t criminals. What are you talking about?” She sat up. “Now look, Marie-Claude. I waited all my life for someone like Salvatore Bellomo to sweep me off my feet. I’m in love, and he loves me, he said he did, and I’m not getting any younger, and we’re getting married, and I’m not going back to jail. That is that.”

I sat down beside her on the rose satin bed spread and put an arm around her shoulders. The bed could have been made of clouds, it was so soft.

“What if Mr. Bellomo is leading you on, hoping that you’ll tell him where Berengaria’s jewels are, because he thinks you have them?”

“For heaven’s sake. I don’t have any jewels. How can I? They don’t exist, and he’s never asked me the first thing about them. We don’t talk about antiquities or my being in jail. We talk about books and fine art and the weather and our new life together. We talk about wines and food and his family in Sicily. He came from a poor family and is a self-made man, and I admire him. You know I come from humble beginnings, and we have that in common.”

“For all this wealth,” she waved her hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole room, “he’s a very humble man and a dear and I am going to marry him and no one is going to stop me.” She looked at her watch, a new, sparkling gold filigree adornment that I had never seen before.