“Are they all fakes?”
“No, those two,” she gestured to the Chagall and the smaller Picasso. “Those two are the real thing. How Miranda managed to buy them at all is astonishing.”
I studied them. “Unless the person who sold them to Miranda thought they were fakes.” In an abundance of plastic statues, the real ones could be overlooked.
“What’s the good news?”
Rachael handed me a wad of euros. “Even copies can be sold for cash.”
After a brief negotiation, Rachael found two hardy men to follow me back to the apartment and very, very carefully detach the Nevelson from the bedroom wall. It was a tricky business. I adverted my gaze and tried to ignore the bumps and exclamations of the two workers.
Matt got back to me. He was fine, forbidden to see those bad friends again.
I’m sure he was.
The installation was carried downstairs in five pieces. The men carefully stacked the art into a hand cart and rattled it down the street. Real or not, I was happy to replace the black boxes decorated with wood cut out squares and symbols for a mellow Turner replica of the Grand Canal. I would sleep much better without that black stuff hovering over me. It was an overpowering keep out sign. What had Miranda been thinking?
Nic had disappeared, but it wasn’t my job to keep tabs on him. Had we owned phones back in the day, our whole relationship would have been easier. Like with Matt and Chris, I could follow Nic as a friend and know exactly where he was at all times. But did that help? Tina followed the boys, well, mostly Matt, and called him regularly. Where are you? Take a picture and show me.
The only thing that low-atmosphere hovering accomplished was that Matt was a master of disguise and subterfuge, which aren’t necessarily bad skills, just not necessarily what Tina and Vince had in mind. If Matt wanted to visit with his bad friends, he would.
Nic would have created the same kind of fakery my own darling nephew was so clever at doing. So never mind. No matter how advanced the technology, there will always be a young hacker one step ahead.
On the way down the stairs I removed the extra key from under the cherub.
I planned to take myself out to dinner, courtesy of Miranda’s fake paintings. I passed the young man again. He could have been in one of Max’s ads: tall, dark hair, good bones. I nodded hello and he nodded back and returned to staring into his phone. Waiting for a girl. I was pretty sure he liked girls. It wasn’t my concern.
I found photos of Nic, Chris texted me. He is with a group of men.
Thanks, you’re the best.
The best what?
When Trish delivered her late-in-life boys, back to back, I was summoned from Milan where I was on the verge of something interesting, to help with the new baby and old toddler. I love the boys but I’m not really the maternal type, I tried to stay for as short a time as I could and dashed back to Milan barely six months later, but the opportunity was lost. Some people can shuck off obligations as easily as a cheap dress. I can’t.
The best nephew ever.
Matt is back, Mom grounded him.
He’ll be out in 24 hours, I promised.
He always is. Chris signed off.
How does Matt stay in school if he is so busy making ill-advised choices? Chris. When fifth-grade Matt couldn’t for the life of him learn his multiplication tables, third-grade Chris showed him how. It escalated from there, with Chris taking over Matt’s homework, turning in flawlessly executed math pages and, later, English papers. By high school Matt had figured out that he didn’t quite look or even sound like a straight-A student and so would dumb down Chris’s papers before turning them in. Solid Bs. Matt would attend a strong college like Sacramento or Humboldt State. Chris wasn’t sure where he wanted to go. I am voting for Stanford. Chris may be antisocial, but he is brilliant. There would be a place for him in a university, even if there wasn’t for me.
When I was digging in Egypt with Nic, Chris developed quite an obsession with the field. I admit I used his expertise and brilliant research ability to my advantage, so I’m in no position to judge Matt, and all three of us know it. To this day Nic is unaware of my secret research weapon. My best nephew.
We don’t need to review the dinner—how I relished this wonderful refined civilization run by people who knew what they were doing. How I missed obsequious waiters, pompous sommeliers, overpriced wine that after the first sip, is pronounced worth it. I missed the absolute indulgence of a good meal. It was heaven itself and soothed my nerves sufficiently enough that I was only a little surprised to see Cindy perched on an enormous pink Samsonite case blocking the apartment stairs.
I allowed an eye roll, then nodded for her to follow. I did not offer to carry her suitcase. The case crashed and banged behind me like a wrecking ball.
Just inside the door, Cindy dropped the heavy case with a crash and headed to the tiny kitchen.
“I think I’m in trouble.” She rooted around for a bottle of wine. “Salvatore, that’s the owner, you brought him wine.” She held up a bottle of same and brought it into the sitting area. “He wants to know if you’re married by the way.”
I love the Italians.
“I’m not married, by the way, and yes, if you’re dealing with people happy to burn down a whole business to make a point, you are in trouble.” I set down two glasses and retrieved the wine opener.
“Where is Miranda?”
It was hard to say the words out loud; in fact, I had been able to avoid it since I arrived. We all just acknowledged the loss, didn’t need to dwell, didn’t need to get all crazy.
I looked at Cindy, it was about to get crazy.
“She died, a week ago.”
Cindy’s eyes widened in shock. Her knees buckled and she dropped on the couch. She looked like how I felt.
“What?”
“Heart attack,” I explained.
“But she was.”
“Heathy, social, in good shape.”
Cindy dropped her head in her hands and began to sob.
I watched her for a moment. I had forgotten about that particular superpower of hers. She used to freak out Miranda with her tears because they just wouldn’t stop. Miranda, who was not a crier, was always at a loss and always ended up promising Cindy anything if she would just stop crying.
I opened the wine. She sobbed. I poured two glasses, she cried. With mine firmly in hand, I nudged her off her off her enormous purple suitcase and dragged it into the tiny bedroom/luggage closet.
“Don’t cry.” It was a useless admonishment. Once she started up, her tears were as difficult to stop as a King Tide. “You can stay here. Until we figure this out.”
Just this morning I had insisted that the extra room could be billed as a study nook. Maria had wrinkled her nose at even this generous definition. A one-bedroom apartment is not an easy sell. People have children, relatives, sleep overs, sudden friends who appear at your door as soon as you have a place in Venice. Maria relented and we listed it as a child’s bedroom.
“But…” Cindy’s eyes were soaking wet and ringed with so much smeared eyeliner she looked like her old Goth self.
I retrieved a dishcloth and held it out. “Don’t worry, the apartment has already been robbed. I don’t think they’ll return. Besides, they already have my purse.”
“I’m so sorry.” She began to cry again.
I sipped my wine and watched the lights appear in the hotel across the canal.
After another five minutes of sobbing, she slowed to a hiccup and drank her wine.
She wiped her face, smearing the white towel black.
“So,” I was purposely cheerful. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“After Miranda, I tried to get back into modeling.”
I sipped the wine and waited.
“I toured around. I met a nice girl and we went to Greece.”
I nodded. What I remember of Cindy, she was good at meeting people who then helped her in many and all ways. She move
d from relationship to relationship until she wore out her welcome either because she stole something important or because she stole something trivial and was caught. Or because she slipped back into drugs, or just because she had little to contribute to the conversation. She still looked good, so depending on the kindness of strangers was still relatively easy to do. She was canny, she was clever, and she was a hopeless addict. And I had just handed her a glass of wine. Who is the enabler here?
She drank the wine and glanced around as if I had an array of paraphernalia and cocaine (at least that’s what I remembered she liked best, doing lines in our tiny bathroom, explaining that she was always this energetic and cheerful first thing in the morning) on display. No drugs, honey, just alcohol and caffeine.
“You went to Greece.” I prompted. And their entire economy collapsed. Coincidence? Where had she toured next, Syria?
“She was nice, but you know, it didn’t work out.” She sniffed. I didn’t want to hear the details, the screaming, the epic crying jags, the last-minute cash grab even as she was firmly escorted out the door.
I am an idiot for helping her. But I can’t help helping.
I picked up my phone and texted Nic.
I poured more wine for her. I poured more wine for me. “You returned to Venice?” I prompted.
She sniffed. “I like it here. I met a nice man and he said Salvatore needed help in his store, all I had to do was pick up some of the products and bring them back to Italy.”
With Amazon Prime available all over the world, that didn’t seem plausible. I waited.
Nic texted back he was on his way.
“How long have you been here?” A more neutral question rather than How long have you been smuggling stolen artifacts? How long have you been selling stolen goods? How long have you been avoiding the authorities? See? I have learned to ask better, more casual questions. Learned that from my long-time association with my too clever nephews.
“A year.” She sniffed.
Nic rang and I let him in.
“Hello.” He offered his hand to Cindy who gave him a limp-wrist shake.
“What happened?”
He scooted me to the end of the couch and sat close to Cindy. He took her hand and patted it, the avuncular uncle, the soothing professor. I could have been jealous, but this was his way to drag out information. I let him do his work.
“You are upset, who did this to you?”
“I don’t have a job anymore.” She wailed. “What will I do? And Miranda is gone! I can’t believe this!” A new audience, she started the tears again. I quickly poured myself more wine.
“Get another job?” He hazarded. He glanced at my glass and I retrieved one for him and poured a generous amount.
“No, they said I couldn’t work for anyone else.”
“They?” He ducked his head and tried to look into her eyes, but she wasn’t having it.
She sniffed and drained the wine glass. I topped off both. Nic eyed me and I shrugged. He started it.
She sniffed again, Nic patted her hand and the story haltingly came out. Rather than drag it out word after word, I’ll summarize. Two men approached Cindy and set her up as a clerk in the Venetian souvenir shop. All she had to do was show up every day, which took more concerted effort than you may think. Every week she would to take a short trip out to Greece, or one of the Stans, pick up a package and return it to the store. The items in the packages went into the inventory.
“Who purchased them?” Nic patiently pulled out the rest of the story.
She shrugged. “I don’t know, I never saw what was in the packages. It was easy until a couple months ago, some new guys came to the store and changed everything. I had to take the cruise ships and I had to go to Albania. Do you know what’s in Albania?
“Not hot Greek beaches?” I guessed.
She ignored me. “I liked the cruise part. I charged my drinks to a random room, ate a good dinner and the people were really nice.”
Nic was now interested. “How did you board?”
“The logo bag. That gets you in. Most of the time. Enough of the time.” She amended.
Getting in was actually the easy part. She would claim she lost her boarding pass and gesture with the logo bag. If she couldn’t make it onto the cruise ship, she’d have to take the long bus ride to Butrint and back. And there were no free drinks on the bus, so she hadn’t liked those two trips very much.
“They said it would be fine, I didn’t need to do it anymore and I’d still get my money.” She started in to wail but Nic must have squeezed her hand so hard it startled her, and she stopped crying.
“They? Who is they? Who are these people?” His tone was sharp.
“Two guys. Not American, they have a different accent. Like I said, they are new. They stopped at the shop once. Mostly they just text. And I, you know, just do it.” She shrugged, a little more composed.
“You must be exhausted,” Nic suggested.
She nodded. Taking his cue, I hustled her off to the bathroom for a proper shower. I pulled out the black towels in case there was still mascara left.
When I returned, Nic was busy on his phone.
“Stolen goods. They must have picked them up from somewhere in Egypt and are routing them through various countries.”
I watched him carefully. Were these the same men who stole my purse and ransacked my (Miranda’s) apartment? Maybe, maybe not. Nic seemed genuinely perplexed, like this was new information, information he was not particularly happy about.
“She’s not flying,” I pointed out. That was all I needed to say. It was too easy for customs to take things. Too easy for TSA employees to rifle through checked luggage, steal anything they want with only a little orange note with the excuse that breakage and theft was in the name of security. Everyone is a terrorist. If Cindy were to fly, the gig would be up before she could board the plane.
He looked at me. “Stolen antiques are big business.”
“A big deal.” I knew that.
“Worth destroying a business.”
“Worth burning the evidence.”
“Worth killing for,” he said quietly.
I knew that too.
Chapter 17
There is no easy way to reach Saranda, Albania. Which is why stowing away on a handy cruise ship made so much sense.
“There is no airport?” Nic was incredulous.
Cindy, fresh and cherubic from her shower, just shrugged. She reached for more wine, allowing her robe to gap. Nic ignored her effort. Wine in hand, Cindy wiggled close to him. He talked over her head at me, the organized matron. Now why isn’t a competent, organized woman as erotic as a damsel in distress?
Suppressing a sigh, I scrolled on my phone. “Shares are sold, invest now, but no flights, no building, no.” I glanced up at him as if this were a surprise.
“Infrastructure.”
“Roads?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The best way to reach Butrint is to fly to Tirana and take a bus to Saranda.”
“And we are doing this why?”
“That’s why we always tried to take the cruise ships.” Cindy was being helpful.
“Stow away?”
She frowned. “Just a ride. No one got hurt.”
“Until today,” I pointed out.
She slumped in the seat and crossed her arms. Ah, now that gesture I remembered.
I put my hands on my hips. “My best friend just died, and I want to know why.” And a store had been burned to the ground and a young woman was in trouble.
“You made a great researcher. That university job,” Nic began.
“Was rescinded. I know.”
He nodded, it was a sore point, not his fault. Back when we were a thing, he had been sympathetic, now, not so much. Or Cindy had sucked out all his sympathy, it lay like a desiccated mummy between us.
“A weekend in Albania,” he repeated with a grand display of displeasure.
“It’s an up and coming thing, the River
a of the Adriatic.”
“Lesser, minor Adriatic,” he corrected.
Cindy hunched lower, all attitude with perky breasts. The Fates were unkind. I wasn’t unkind per se, but I did want my pound of flesh.
“You can stay here. Just let Maria, she’s the real estate agent, in tomorrow.” “When?”
“In the morning.”
“Early?”
“Yes, early.” I waited. No good deed goes unpunished. Maybe that should be my mantra instead of Can I help you? I should listen to that line from The Producers “Stop helping!”
“You don’t need to stay here.” I offered.
“I’ll get up.”
“Ah, thank you. The agent will text me with her report. I appreciate your help with this.”
Not comfortable with the living arrangements at all, we reluctantly left the tearful Cindy with instructions to stay put over the weekend and only venture out for important errands, like gelato. I’m not heartless.
We flew Ryan Air from Venice to Tirana; it was only a little less frightening than driving.
Nic and I went around and round—take the bus, take the train (no overnight train, I’m officially too old for that nonsense.) We could fly easily enough into the capital, but it was eight hours by bus to Saranda and another forty-five minutes by bus from there.
Nic tried to slouch in his airline seat but it didn’t have much give. Or recline. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
I patted his hand and forestalled mentioning the long bus ride ahead. “You’ll be fine.”
I am unfamiliar with the ins and outs of commerce between former fascist states and communist regimes. I imagined it would not be simple to smuggle things from one through to another. All the guards would need to be in on the action, all the right people consistently paid.
The Albanians are not good at commerce, but they are giving it their best, awkward shot. There were for instance, hotels. I booked us into the most anonymous hotel available at the last minute, the Tirana International Hotel. It is adjacent to Skanderbeg Square and offers spectacular views over the square and the city. A popular hotel would give us cover. I assumed there would be plenty of action, many exits and entrances, not only of guests but curious tourists. The website even pointed out that the hotel was a popular meeting place for spies against communism. Perfect.
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