by Ritter Ames
"We'll stick to the truth as much as possible. Giovanni Nicoletta's castillo is where we met, and since then we've kept in touch."
Silence lasted about a minute. "I can do this if you can."
"Shake to seal the deal?" Jack smiled wryly and held out his hand.
My much smaller hand slid into his smoothly calloused palm, and we shook on it.
Before he released my hand, he said, "A deal is a deal, Miss Beacham. I fully expect you to honor your word." He said word like it meant a vow.
I pulled my hand away. "I expect exactly the same from you, Mr. Hawkes."
The look he shot my way was every bit as suspicious as the one I sent back at him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Too busy thinking, I hadn't paid much attention to where we were going. Jack kept my arm secure in the crook of his elbow, and my feet followed his lead, but my heart double-timed its pace as my vision finally filled with our destination. The entrance had been retooled a bit, huge pots of shrubs and flowers, probably hired for the event, rested in front, but the building was the same.
"La Galleria del Giardino della Vita," I breathed.
"Not anymore. The new owners renamed it."
"I thought it had been made into a bank after Andrea Tessaro died."
"That's true, but several years ago the bank moved, and the people who purchased the property wanted to bring back the art. They have big dreams," he finished a bit sardonically as we climbed the steps, my hand on his proffered arm.
I looked at him questioningly. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Its new name is La Galleria del Sogno Infinito."
"The Gallery of the Infinite Dream," I repeated as we walked into the lobby, and I was transported back in time. The simplicity of the entry, now filled with a long centrally placed table and surrounded by people dressed to maximum effect in a variety of colors and textures, remained exactly as I remembered. "It hasn't changed."
His very British sarcasm knocked me out of memory lane. "Whatever changes the bank made, the new owners apparently restored it to its former glory."
"You know, if I knew you better, I might think you had a grudge with the new owners," I murmured.
We reached the table, and he handed over the invitations while I picked up a couple of brochures. A few seconds later we arrived in the main section of the gallery, moving slowly but steadily with the rest of the crowd. Again, the place was as I remembered it.
"That's just it. No one really knows who the new owners are. They've applied for and received the proper permits and all, but as far as putting a real name or names to the buyer, there's nothing to report. A company called Ermo Colle purchased it, and their front man is an Italian exporter/importer who has fingers in lots of distant and varied company pies but no real stake or public connection to any of them."
"Ermo Colle? I think colle is hill, but ermo?"
"Solitary, lonely. Actually a Greek word. Goes back to a nineteenth-century poem by Giocomo Leopardi, and the gallery's name is taken from the poem's title, 'L'Infinito.' Leopardi was a gifted student who outpaced his instructor and resorted to long hours of self-study. Before he even reached age twenty, however, he had compromised his health from spending so much time hunched over books. 'L'Infinito,' his best-known work, is a poem beginning with a solitary or lonely hill the poet can't see because his sight is blocked by a hedge, so he must use his mind to open up a vision of the limitless world for himself."
"I had no idea you possessed such an interest in poetry, Jack."
He grimaced as we moved into the main salon and took two glasses of Franciacorta, a sparkling wine from the Lombardy region. One of my favorite Italian wines, but not one I expected to be served at a Tuscany region event. I hadn't bothered to check, but the tickets to this party must be pretty steep or the owners cut a great deal with the winery to be able to serve this vintage en mass.
"I'm not. When I take on a project, part of the investigative research I do includes finding out as much as I can."
"You? Or some kind of team?"
"I'm assuming from your reaction when we walked in, you visited this gallery during Tessaro's time. You must have been a kid."
Okay, he was obviously changing the subject to keep from answering, no surprise there, but I decided to play along. Maybe if we explored his non sequitur for a moment, he would return the favor and give me a bit of new data. "Yes, I was here—"
"Jack! I had no idea you were in Italy." A tall, thin red-haired man, with the same type of public school accent Jack had when he employed the full Brit, greeted him with a smile and handshake. "You remember my wife, Milli." Milli and Jack briefly hugged. "Tell me you haven't been in Florence long, or I may be offended."
Milli had a friendly, well cared for, middle-aged Italian vibe and wore a spectacular Valentino that flattered her figure and her skin. Though well turned out, she appeared several years older than her husband, who had the English fuddy-duddy formal thing happening.
"Hamish, I had no idea you were still here. Continuing to plug away at teaching art students to appreciate their masterpieces' British counterparts?"
A teacher? No way could a teacher afford Valentino.
"You know me, Jack. Never say never. Someday the ungrateful whelps will appreciate quality when they see it. Besides, I'm saved from teacher purgatory by the two English and five American transfer students I've got this semester."
We all laughed. University professor. Still not enough for a designer gown—this year's line, if I wasn't mistaken. Maybe family money on one side or the other. My guess was on the wife's.
"Hamish, Milli, please let me introduce my friend and companion, Laurel Beacham. Laurel, this is Hamish Ravensdale and his wife, Milli. Hamish and I went to school together."
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Went to school together? Modesty doesn't suit you, Jack." Hamish looked over at me. "He saved my life from the cruelties of English schoolboys more times that I can count." He pretended to flex a nonexistent bicep. The loose, expensive material of his suit didn't tighten. "Never had much bravura or stamina as a kid. Jack, on the other hand, had enough for all in our year."
"Hmm, Jack as the overly protective type. Not hard to see him in that role." I lifted my eyebrow and eyed him over the rim of my glass as the others laughed.
"See you've come up against his white-knight side," Hamish said.
I nodded. White knight, my ass. More like control freak. But I judiciously kept my thoughts to myself.
The resonance of tinkling glass and a microphone slowed conversation until everyone turned toward the sound.
"Mi scusi, mi scusi…"
The rest of the brief introduction gave a potted history of the gallery, thanked the many people, especially the donors of special pieces, who had made this venture possible, hoped everyone had a wonderful time, and explained a bit about what we would be viewing—the same rhetoric on the brochures as well as Flavia's e-mail—women artists and women subjects beginning with the Renaissance through the Baroque period with a few noteworthy current women painters and paintings.
He turned the microphone over to a woman who had just entered the room from a side door.
Flavia. From the distance, she didn't appear to have aged. I hadn't seen her in person in probably five years. She basically thanked all of us for coming and told everyone to be on alert for some unexpected and exciting surprises throughout the gallery, specifying a few of them to whet our appetite. She also mentioned a private bar for everyone's pleasure—not free of course—and the very great need to continue to provide revenue for the important artistic exposure of women artists. Especially in Florence, considering the historical significance. In other words, she meant that historically, in Florence, women were used as art subjects to display their husband's prominence, magnitude, and wealth. Women were exemplified as representations of their husband's property. Women artists also were typically not appreciated, definitely not encouraged, and their art dismissed as o
f lesser importance.
She finished speaking to scattered applause and slipped out again through the same side door. Strange. I would have thought she would have immediately taken advantage to mingle with the crowd. Maybe a problem existed elsewhere only she could handle. People ebbed slowly toward the rooms of displayed art. Hamish continued talking to Jack. His wife, after a smile to us and a brief word in her husband's ear, moved to speak to another couple. I took advantage of the men's conversation to observe other people. I saw some faces I could put a name to but not as many as I thought I would. At this point, those whom I recognized were individuals I considered too unimportant to our current interests. However, I made a point of speaking to them since the whole exercise was for me to be noticed.
The main salon looked basically the same. Hamish's voice became an inconsequential murmur as I lost myself in thoughts of the last time I'd been here fifteen years ago.
As far as current events ran, I had not really kept up with what was happening in Florence except in a very superficial way. I hadn't heard the gallery reopened under another name or knew of Flavia's connection to it. I did find it strange she hadn't said anything in her e-mail. She knew all about what had happened here those many years ago with the theft of The Portrait of Three, not just from a newsstand point of view, but from a shared emotional viewpoint with my own. She and her family attended the gallery event that fateful night as well.
"Ready?" Jack's voice was as clipped and steady as his hand on my arm and refocused my attention. I realized Hamish had moved away.
"Yes?" My mind continued operating on two levels—past and present, but I needed to focus on the here and now. I sternly reminded myself this night had nothing to do with what happened so long ago and pushed those thoughts out of my head as we moved from the salon into the main hallway. Various rooms branched out to other rooms.
I didn't know what Jack had in mind, but I was having a hard time keeping my time frames straight. Surreal. Forget the art, the hordes of people, the food, and the drinks. The halls were exactly as I remembered them. Like my child's brain had somehow taken an adult video. Was this what the owners planned, or something else I needed to figure out in this mess?
No! I'm looking for connections where none exist. Stop it, stop it, stop it!
It was a historic building. Of course when they remodeled, they returned it to its former appearance as much as possible.
As we strolled through, admiring the art, I did what I do best and put aside my personal issues while admiring the exhibits of women's artistry and their roles as subjects from the Renaissance to the present. Too much to do, talking, laughing, drinking, and looking to make connections. I couldn't choke down a thing to eat, however, and apparently neither could Jack. As we lingered and moved on, more and more people joined the masses, and many familiar faces showed up.
See and be seen would sum it up well. Jack and I momentarily split up, came back together, and kept tabs on one another throughout the evening.
On my way back to Jack, after a short departure to visit with an old donor of Beacham's, someone grabbed me by the waist and whirled me around, briefly hugging me. "Laurel!"
Rollie. Dressed to the nines in a navy velvet suit with silk lapels. His hair, longer than the last time I'd seen him in person, fell over his shoulder until he flipped it back.
"Nice to see you," I said, giving him a warm smile, playing the game.
"Is that all you have to say? It is nice to see me?" He reached out and straightened a lock of my hair. His smiling eyes were just as I remembered them. "I've missed you, Laurel Beacham. I thought we had something good between us, and poof! Nothing. Please explain." His teeth were straight and white and shone like the sun. Such a gorgeous man with such dubious family connections and an utterly horrific taste in friends—maybe.
"I don't remember receiving a call from you." I looked at him questioningly.
"I did not want to intrude. But say the word, and I shall be available night or day."
I laughed at his obvious reference. "I have no doubt of that. No doubt at all." I held out my hand. "Now, I really must be off. I'm here with a friend."
"Oh, is that the way it is blowing? I get the photograph now."
"Picture, Rollie. You get the picture." After all I'd learned about him, I wondered if his struggle with English was fake or real.
"Of course, of course. Picture." He held my shoulders and kissed me in continental fashion. "As always, a pleasure to see you. You are such a beautiful woman. You remind me of someone—did I ever tell you that?" He shook his head. "No, I don't think I did. À bientôt, Laurel."
He'd see me soon? Not if I had anything to do with it. I watched him walk away, greeting an older woman affectionately. What did he mean I reminded him of someone?
I ran Jack down as he laughed with another man, and I indicated we needed to talk. He introduced us and quickly made excuses so we could break away. "What's up?"
"Rollie."
"Here?"
"Yes." A passing waiter swanned by with a tray of full glasses, and I accepted one to keep my hands busy.
"He talked with you?"
I briefly described the conversation, leaving out the "remind me of someone" part.
"Did you—"
"I played the game like you said to do. Acted like nothing was wrong, didn't object when he hugged me. So on and so forth." Jack's eyes narrowed. "I did not make a date, however. I told him I was here with someone else."
"You didn't mention my name?"
I shook my head. "No. It literally didn't occur to me to do so. I think he approached me only because you weren't around." I walked away. Of course he caught up with me, and the game continued.
When I'd had enough, I extricated myself delicately by mentioning the ladies' room, and Jack politely, albeit reluctantly, let me go with a promise to have a fresh drink for me upon my return. White-knight, control-freak syndrome style.
He was nowhere in sight when I returned to the spot where I'd left him, so I drifted and smiled and became generally bored with our great idea.
The crowd was getting heavier than I'd expected, and the jostling became more full-bodied than I liked. When my clutch was knocked from under my arm and skittered on the floor under the Giorgio and Valentino gowns, I called the game and decided to make it an evening.
It took some time for my bag to finish its football scrimmage and get returned to me. I didn't want to appear gauche and look then to see if anything was missing. I did the mental weighing bit however, also giving the bag a thoughtful squeeze before determining the clutch felt as if everything was accounted for.
I raised up on my toes, trying to spot Jack to give him the "let's leave" signal. But when I did see him, it was because he appeared at my elbow and pulled me back down to normal height before whispering, "Quick! Look over there."
He inclined his head, and I gazed toward the north end of the room. I didn't recognize anyone or see anything amiss, so I whispered back, "What do you mean?"
"The blonde with the short hair and the killer black dress. It's your friend Tina."
I laughed and patted his arm. "Oh, Jack, I have to learn when to cut you off. How many drinks have you had tonight?"
"I'm serious, Laurel."
Suddenly, I saw that he was. The laughter died in my throat, and I looked again at the blonde across the room. "Tina's dead. The homicide detective confirmed it."
"Did you see the body?"
"The homicide d—"
"Did you see the body?" His gaze bore into mine, and suddenly those lovely teal eyes gave a hint of menace.
I swallowed hard. "Thankfully, no."
"Then I guarantee you the woman over there is Tina Schroeder. And since I don't believe in reanimation or reincarnation, I'd say something more sinister is going on."
As Jack talked, he'd been pulling me closer toward the north end of the room. "Look past the makeup. It's quite different, I know. An expert job, just like the hair. But bone struct
ure never lies."
"What are you?" I twisted to face him. "Some kind of human face-recognition software?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I am." His voice held a tinge of steel. "No joking here, look closely. Don't let the professional camouflage fool you."
I did as he asked, attempted a mental strip of the carefully applied makeup—managed by a professional or über-practiced hand. And like dawn breaking, I suddenly saw exactly what Jack had been saying. My hand shot to my mouth to hide my shocked words as I whispered, "Ohmigod, you're right. I would never have seen it if you hadn't pointed her out to me."
At that same moment, her gaze locked on mine, and she straightened a bit taller. Her look said it all—she knew that I knew.
In the next second, a waiter passed between her and us, and she deposited her glass on the departing tray. I watched Jack break away and head in the same direction as the waiter, and I knew he was going to grab the glass for a fingerprint comparison. Time to confront Tina. I turned to again face her direction and realized she was gone.
Unfortunately, I had a new problem. A smarmy voice spoke from behind me. "I didn't think he was ever going to leave."
I whirled. "Tony B—"
"Miss me, Laurel?" He reached for my arm, but I sidestepped him, staying just a bit out of range.
"No, there are so many old friends here tonight, I hadn't even had a chance to think about you," I said, opening my clutch and letting my fingers search for one of my picks, never taking my eyes off the snake.
He shifted to outflank me, keeping an eye on Jack's progress. "Looks like you have a new friend. First at the Browning. Now here. Interesting."
I slipped around an older couple, both short enough that I could still see Tony B. They were carrying on a spirited conversation in Italian and didn't seem to realize they were the net in our game of verbal badminton. I risked a step back, throwing out a quick volley to keep his mind occupied. "Did you know Tina Schroeder is still alive?"
He offered one of his nonchalant shrugs. "I never said she wasn't."