The Gray Ghost (Fargo Adventures 10)

Remi, absorbed in reading the journal entry on her tablet, barely noticed the two-and-a-half-hour flight until they started their descent into Ciampino Airport. Outside, the blacktop of the tarmac rippled with heat waves, the summer sun beating down as the Fargos’ jet landed, taxied toward the hangar they’d rented for their stay. By the time Sam, Remi, Oliver, and Chad cleared customs and immigration, then picked up the rental car, the four were grateful for the air-conditioning in the car during the two hours it took to drive to the villa.

Remi eyed the acres of vineyards and the long, winding drive shaded on both sides by tall sycamore trees. At the top of the hill, a wide wrought iron gate blocking their passage now swung open. Georgia, a tall woman with short dark hair, wearing a flowing white linen dress, stepped out onto the terra-cotta-tiled porch as they got out of the car.

“Remi, darling! So good to see you!” She gave Remi a kiss on each cheek, and turned to Sam. “Handsome as ever.”

“Georgia,” Sam said. “As beautiful as the day we first met. I swear, you don’t age.”

“You’re such a wonderful liar.” She smiled as Sam introduced her to Chad and Oliver. “The Viscount’s nephew,” she said, shaking Oliver’s hand. “Did I understand that you and Sam are actually related?”

“Cousins,” Oliver replied.

Georgia turned, with amused expression, in Sam’s direction. “Had I only known, I’d have thrown a very large party.”

“Cousins,” Sam said, “several times removed.”

“Don’t let him fool you, Georgia,” Remi said. “Sam’s only five hundredth or so in line to the throne.”

Georgia laughed, as she beckoned them inside. “No living with you now, is there, Sam?”

“Trying not to let it go to my head.” He looked past her into the house. “Where’s John?”

“Winemaking. Never-ending job. He should be up in a little while.”

They stepped into the cool interior, the same terra-cotta tiles from the porch on the floor inside. Georgia showed them to their rooms, pausing as she was about to leave. “Had I known earlier you were coming, I’d have canceled the group renting the villa this weekend, and you wouldn’t have to rush out.”

“We’ll be fine,” Remi said.

Georgia smiled. “I’m not sure I will. Coll

ege students on summer break. One of my friends rented to them last year, but he was booked up. Apparently, they’re loud but very respectful. The one advantage is, they all sleep in late. The mornings are quiet.” She led them upstairs. “If you need help finding a place after this weekend, I have other friends who’ve joined the bed and breakfast club. I can find you a lovely place to stay.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll find what we need in a day or two.”

Georgia’s face clouded with anxiety. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince the four of you to give up this search? I’ve heard this dealer can be dangerous. There are rumors that he’s connected to the Mafia.”

“We at least have to look into it,” Sam said.

Her smile was grim. “I do hope you’ll change your mind. Even so, I’m glad we’ll have a chance to catch up. You haven’t made dinner plans, have you?”

“None.”

“Then I’ll see you after you have a chance to freshen up. We’ll dine on the veranda around eight. I’m looking forward to having you try our Chianti with dinner.”

Remi joined Georgia before the men returned from their tour of the wine cellars beneath the house, hoping for a chance to catch up with her friend. The veranda overlooked the vineyards they’d seen on the drive up, the evening sun painting the rolling hills with a golden glow. A light breeze rippled through the vines, rustling the broad leaves.

Remi sighed. “It must be wonderful looking out at this each night. I’m a bit envious.”

“Don’t be. We’re actually considering selling.”

“Why? I thought you loved it here.”

“What’s not to love? Unfortunately, while it was one of those ideas that look good on paper, the reality is that running a boutique winery isn’t nearly as profitable as we’d hoped. Hence, the bed and breakfast angle.”

Remi looked over at Georgia, noting the worried look in her eyes. “If you need help with anything, you’ll let us know.”

Georgia gave a slight shrug, smiled. “There’re worse things than being poor. Like not seeing a good friend in years and years. Come, sit.” She led Remi to a glass-topped table, with several wicker chairs set around it. She opened a bottle of prosecco that had been chilling in an ice bucket, poured two glasses. “Now, tell me all about this car you’re hunting for. How very exciting it all sounds.”

“Frustrating, is more like it,” Remi said. “That car was practically stolen from right beneath our noses.”