A/N: I decided to try turning this into a sort of series, connecting the stories by using the word "niche" in their titles. No telling yet where it will all end...but this story will undoubtedly open up some future possibilities! Enjoy...as always, I appreciate feedback!
§ § § - September 6, 2008
"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this." Christian lounged against the railing of the main-house veranda, glowering at Leslie as if she had caused their world to cave in somehow. "My employees have had to work from home almost since that stink beetle wreaked havoc in my office...and poor Darius has nothing to do."
Leslie sighed. "Christian, don't look at me like that. It's not like you have to come to the plane dock with me. If you're that upset, why don't you go rent a hazmat suit and charge into your office and see what can be salvaged in there? Just make sure someone's around to watch the triplets, that's all I ask." She turned toward the steps, where her three assistants stood waiting with eager eyes: Michiko, Lauren and an extremely eager Noelle Tokita, who had landed the much-coveted (by the island kids) go-fer slot. Maureen had reported a few days before that this had caused an apparent breakdown in relations between Noelle and Brianna, who in their teens seemed to be more competitive than ever. Leslie still remembered their first real fight over who got to use an invisibility potion for their class Halloween party when they were in the second grade. Leslie needed only one go-fer, though; and when Noelle had managed to beat Brianna to the punch, Maureen had remarked wryly that she thought it was only fair since Brianna tended to get the drop on Noelle in almost every other area - boys, popularity, extroversion, sometimes even extra babysitting privileges for the triplets if Christian and Leslie happened to need them outside the weekends.
"Come on, Christian, don't be a party pooper," Lauren said, grinning. "If you say you never wanted anything to do with this whole adventure in the first place, I won't believe it."
"Me either, not for a second," Michiko agreed.
Annoyed, Christian rolled his eyes. "I'm not too appreciative of jokes at my expense right now. My business here on the island has vanished since that incident with the beetle, and I'm beginning to worry." He squinted at Leslie. "And what's a 'hazmat' suit?"
"Hazardous material," Leslie said. "Sort of a moonsuit. Just go into town and see if anyone can tell you anything - or better yet, take the car and go down to the ferry terminal, and catch the next boat to Coral Island. Somebody on the Air Force base there might be able to help you."
"You were serious about the hazmat suit?" Lauren asked, breaking into laughter.
"Well, I can't think of anything else," Leslie said, shrugging. "He's been fretting since Wednesday when nobody at all would come into the office, and he ended up having to close it down again. I'd be amazed if everything hasn't melted from the smell by now." A rover, driven by David Omamara, hove into view at last and she grinned. "Well, there's our ride. It's up to you, Christian - you can either stay here and man the phone, or go hunt down the moonsuit and I'll have Noelle here do it."
"Acchh..." Christian made a disgusted noise and waved a hand at them, shaking his head. "Why be a sadist and deprive poor Noelle of a chance to meet guests at the plane, the way you did when you were that age? I'll keep an eye on things here, but once you get back, I'll be gone."
"Suit yourself," said Leslie and waved at him. "See you in a while. Well, let's go." She slipped into the front seat while Michiko and Lauren, with Noelle sandwiched between them, crowded into the middle seat, and they were off to the dock. Leslie had to squelch abdominal jitters the whole way; it felt as if her stomach had been invaded by hyperactive centipedes. She wondered where Roarke and Rogan were now, and what was going on with them.
‡ ‡ ‡ - near Grottaminarda, Italy
Rogan Callaghan had never been to this part of the world before, and as he and Roarke stepped out of a taxi in front of a huge old villa that appeared to date from the Roman Empire, he pivoted in several full circles, trying to take in everything. He'd had any number of surprises since first being asked to accompany Roarke on this mission, not the least of which was the fact that some unknown power-that-was had allowed Roarke to leave his island in the first place. But the reason was sufficient, and now here they were, at what Roarke had told his cousin's son was the home of the LiSciola family. Off the island, Roarke was not wearing his trademark white suit; instead he was dressed a little more casually, conceding to the Mediterranean climate of late summer with tan cotton slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt.
Roarke noticed Rogan's fascination and chuckled. "You'll have plenty of time to take in the scenery," he assured the younger man. "Remember, we're to be here for a month."
"You'd be surprised how fast a month can pass you by, uncle," Rogan observed, still taking in their surroundings. "Now, tell me again what we're doing here, would you?"
"I'll take care of that," said a new voice, and Roarke drew himself up to his full height while Rogan spun around to see who had spoken. Count LiSciola had changed no more than Roarke ever had; Christian would have recognized his one-time father-in-law with no trouble at all. He still wore a cape over a dark suit, curiously overdressed for the climate, but clearly under the impression that he had an image to maintain. "Roarke, good of you to come." He eyed Rogan and scowled suddenly. "Rogan Callaghan...now I remember. You stole the Lilla Jordsö amakarna account from me, you young thief."
Rogan grinned unrepentantly. "And glad I am that I did it, too. Your attitude leaves a fair amount to be desired, and we reserve the right to go straight back to Fantasy Island if we decide you aren't being suitably hospitable."
LiSciola glared at him, but gave in anyway. "Well, as long as you're here, you might as well come inside. Follow me." He turned and began climbing the wide stone staircase he'd just descended, his shoes clacking on the steps as if in perpetual complaint. Roarke and Rogan glanced at each other before starting up after the count; in their wake came the taxi driver with two bags for each of the travelers.
They climbed nearly two dozen steps before coming out on a huge stonework piazza that afforded them a spectacular view of the hilly Italian countryside. Scattered below the little tor on which the villa rested was a small but sprawling village; everything was vibrantly green, and the air seemed to smell like wine. Scrolled-iron chairs and tables dotted the piazza, whose walls were thickly festooned with ivy vines. LiSciola bypassed all this, leading them through one of a series of arches supporting a roofed section of the piazza and then inside through a heavy sliding glass door. The room they entered was paved with terra-cotta flagstones, worn smooth by countless years of being trod upon, and sparsely furnished; its outer walls were mostly windows. The wall across from the glass door was covered with an elaborate mural showing scenes of life in Italy circa the height of the Roman Empire, and Rogan wondered idly who had painted it - likely some long-dead scion of the nearly extinct LiSciola family.
From beyond an open door in the middle of the mural called a female voice in Italian, and then a few seconds later, a woman in her thirties popped out, leading a small boy by the hand. When she saw who was there, she gasped and switched to English. "Mr. Roarke! I didn't think you would come! How are Christian and Leslie?"
"Quite well and happy together, Marina, thank you," Roarke said with a warm smile. "And you?"
"I could be better," Marina LiSciola Ognissanti said, flicking a glance at her father and then over her shoulder before clearing her throat. "Papa, don't stand there looking so sour. Let's show Mr. Roarke and Rogan where they are to sleep while they're here."
"What happened to that damned young weed of yours?" LiSciola asked in what sounded like a question so ritual that he had long since grown weary from asking it. "Locked up in the lab again, I don't doubt."
Marina picked up the child and settled him on one hip. "No, he left yesterday. We'll be able to speak with Rogan and Mr. Roarke without interruption. I'll show them to their rooms. Maybe by now Fiorenza will have the evening meal ready, and I'm sure our esteemed guests are hungry after all their traveling." She turned to Roarke and Rogan. "Come with me, will you? We have your rooms waiting for you."
Marina led them through a sprawling living room, packed far too full of furnishings for the men's taste, and up a flight of stairs, then to a pair of bedrooms which both looked out over the rolling valley and the town of Grottaminarda. "Here you are. These rooms share a bathroom. If you need anything at all, simply say so. I'll check on the evening meal and come back to let you know. Meanwhile, do make yourselves at home."
"Your son?" Rogan inquired before she could go, gesturing at the little boy.
"Yes…his name is Lucan and he is three years old." Marina smiled at her little son and nuzzled his hair; the child burrowed his head into her neck, but refused to stop staring at the visitors with a look much too solemn for such a little boy. As if unheeding, Marina tossed them a smile and bustled off with him.
"Remarkably calm and collected, isn't she?" Rogan observed, pausing in the middle of the bathroom doorway with a suitcase in each hand.
"It's no more than a façade," Roarke said softly, staring after Marina for a moment, then pulling himself back into the moment and clearing his throat. "We'd better settle in now while we have the opportunity. I have a great many questions for both Marina and the count…and it's imperative that they have as many answers as possible."
Within an hour the meal was on the table, and Marina had sent her son off to play in another room, having fed him earlier while Roarke and Rogan had rested for a while in their rooms. LiSciola's forehead was etched with lines from what appeared to be a permanent scowl; and for the first time, Marina herself looked nervous. "What can you tell us?" Roarke queried after he and Rogan had asked her to pass on their compliments on the meal to the family cook, Fiorenza.
"That weed I have to call my son-in-law," LiSciola muttered, glaring at his plate. "I never did like that boy, Marina."
"Papa, that's not relevant," Marina said sharply and turned to Roarke with a pleading look. "I hope you can help. You may be aware that Giancarlo went into the black-lightning trade some years ago."
Roarke nodded, a grim shadow settling over his features. "Yes, I discovered it after one of Giancarlo's middlemen got involved in some highly illegal activities on my island and I was forced to have him deported to Samoa. There have been a few other brushes with the drug as well, but it appears that your husband has been keeping his activities quiet."
Marina nodded. "Mostly, yes. Sometimes one of his distributors gets careless, or a customer gets in over his head and makes the news, but most of the time he manages to conduct his business without interference from the authorities."
"Damned weed," muttered LiSciola again.
"Where is the, uh, weed right now?" Rogan asked, with a look of wry amusement.
Marina cleared her throat. "He's on a collection run…that's what he calls it when he goes to his distributors for the money they owe him. Each month he goes to Rome and makes certain that all the money he's owed is paid him—in cash, I might add. When he comes back, he closes himself in the laboratory to be sure that the distillation apparatus is working properly. He is scheduled to return in thirty days." She sighed, a defeated look crossing her face. "And it will all start anew."
"What will?" Rogan asked.
LiSciola grunted. "His arrogant dominance over everyone in this household. He abuses the servants, ignores Lucan, and bullies me." He shot Roarke a look that begged for pity. "The drug trade has made him rich beyond his wildest dreams, which is considerable, and he has even bought my own villa from me, so that he can remind me day and night that I live here solely due to his generosity of spirit because he loves Marina and I am her father. And for all his other faults—which are legion—he does love her."
"And you're not afraid of him turning on you someday?" Rogan wanted to know.
Marina sighed. "I don't know how much longer that will last, I'm sorry to admit. Once Giancarlo was a gentle, lighthearted, good-spirited man, happy and carefree, and we had such a joyous existence when we were first married. True, we were constantly in debt, but we needed nothing but each other."
"Ha," barked LiSciola in disgust. "He needed a decent job, like anyone else in the village, so he could have paid his own way and supported you properly." He turned to Roarke. "You may remember the last time we met, when I mentioned that they were running through the money left from my late daughter Paola's management of the black-lightning trade because I was forever paying off some creditor or another—not for pity of that weed, but to be sure my Marina wouldn't lack for anything she needed. Well, eventually it ran out, and for a year or so that young weed did odd jobs and tried regular work all over the village, only to fail in some manner every single time. He and Marina lost their little apartment and had to move in with me, where they've been ever since. Then one day he was prowling the lab while I tended to the amakarna plants in my greenhouse, and the next thing I knew, he had announced he wanted to take up where Paola left off and revive the black-lightning business. I saw nothing wrong with it; after all, if you're fool enough to get yourself hooked on the stuff, you deserve what it does to you. But once he'd managed to make a success of it, he began lording it over everyone. Now he's a strutting dictator."
"He's become a tyrant," Marina admitted in a small voice, "and he frightens me when he gets angry. And I'm afraid that's rather often. I'm just grateful he pays Lucan no attention, because I fear otherwise he'd do something unspeakable to his own son. He tells me he's doing all this for me, to give me all the things I deserve, but I don't like the way he's doing it. And that's why we contacted you, Mr. Roarke. Perhaps you can make him see reason somehow. And there must be a way to end the black-lightning trade, once and for all. I thought, if anyone knew what it was or could find it, it would be you."
Roarke studied her for a long moment, then frowned. "Indeed, Mrs. Ognissanti, and if I do, will you then let me in on your secret?"