by Tony Bulmer
The scent of wine carried on the breeze, heavy and alluring like a lovers embrace.
Lucretzia Sfarzoso raised the glass to her lips then paused, “It would seem that my glass is more full than yours Niccolò.” She replaced her glass on the table and switched it with her guest, before he had time to protest.
Machiavelli just smiled, watching as Lucretzia gulped thirstily from his glass. As she drank, a raven descended from its perch on the Palazzo Vecchio and flew down in a low swooping arc over the market place.
“I hope you like the wine Signora—it is from my own personal vineyard,” said Machiavelli quietly.
Lucretzia Sfarzoso didn’t respond. They sat there on the balcony for some time, before Machiavelli rose wordlessly and headed for the door. As he left, he gave the servant Stefania a calfskin purse of monies, and disappeared, into the bustle of the marketplace afternoon.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 14
The Pacific Coast Highway Malibu California—present day.
Professor Cornelius Franklin headed south on highway one, driving his Bentley Coupe in the outside lane. At his side, his young niece Mira, looking so very chic in her outfit. She was wearing black again, Liquorice thin pants, and a charcoal colored shirt by Chanel—a very European look thought Franklin—like the beatniks of yore. Of course the young set had a quite different name for such styles these days. How hard it was to keep pace with the vicissitudes of youth.
Franklin eased the Bentley over to make a turn up Sunset Boulevard. He saw Mira looking at him, her raven hair snaking back in the open-top slipstream, running high on fifties glamour like a young Audrey Hepburn. Franklin smiled.
“You want to share?”
“A private thought Mira my dear.”
“Really? We’re taking Sunset?”
“Indeed. For reasons of nostalgia, and so that you may—one day—many years from now, take a similar drive and pass comment on how radically the scenery has changed.”
Mira scrunched her brow. “The ten would be much quicker.”
“Indeed it would, but the ten has no soul. Freeways are so impersonal don’t you find?” She gave him a strange look, but Franklin didn’t care. He was pleased that she had decided to stay in California, rather than returning home to her father in Virginia. The episode in Switzerland had been most unfortunate. Travelling in circles of great wealth and privilege is all very well, but it can lead to contact with nefarious elements. Franklin found the topic difficult. Give the girl time. Let her find her own way… Franklin knew his dear brother would never make such allowances.
“So Mira, what did you make of the Cardinal?”
“He was super weird, like some crazy old vampire from a movie, or something, and this bullshit idea of his, that some fossilized old painting by Leonardo da Vinci has somehow been stolen by the Nazis, that has to be the wildest pile of hokum I have ever heard.”
“Hokum, you say?”
“Yeah, don’t you think?”
“I think for a million dollars we will look into it, what do you say?”
“I say we are wasting our time, that fusty old painting probably got chopped up for kindling, either that, or it is sitting who knows where, with who knows who. Face it Uncle C the trail is colder than a penguins butt, and we got little to no chance of finding it, even if it still exists.”
“That is as may be my dear, but we will proceed with our investigations anyway, unless of course you would prefer to move back to Potomac Hills, Virginia?”
“You are kidding right?”
“You are your own woman, of course. I have no doubt that at any number employers, would be delighted to make your acquaintance. And there is always the world of academia—a noble enterprise if ever there was one.”
Mira looked sullen, “With my record?”
“My dear girl, even the president of the United States smokes marijuana these days. Indeed, I hear such indulgence is positively encouraged in many quarters.”
“That’s very sweet of you Uncle C, but I ruined my pops plans for the big government future he had planned for me, and he still isn’t taking my calls. I guess he is going to stay pissed.”
“Give it time my dear, my brother is a man of clearly defined principals, he molds slowly to the realities of life, but given time, his views will no doubt soften—you can trust me on that.”
Mira looked doubtful, “Just so you know, I am grateful for everything you have done, you didn’t have to…”
“Tish, tish, you are getting all maudlin my dear, it must be the funereal attire you insist on wearing. If you would only allow me, I could introduce you to a specialist in Beverly Hills who could…”
“Do me a favor Uncle C, you have been very hospitable, but please—no career advice—no fashion advice—we got a deal?”
Franklin smiled as they turned onto Sunset Boulevard, driving up the hill now, past the soft fringed palms and wide ocean views, speeding higher, as the coast curved away steeply and they headed into the hard beating heart of Los Angeles. “So, Mira my dear, what do you know of Leonardo da Vinci?”
“High Renaissance polymath—painter, sculptor, architect, musician, scientist, mathematician and inventor, a real factotum, and for all his fame as a painter of the Monna Lisa, he finished very few of the paintings he started.”
“Correct, and that is why this painting of Lady Lucretzia is so important.”
“Are we talking Lucretzia Borgia here? Because that girl was crazier than a night out in Buenos Ares—all that incest and poisoning, it’s a wonder she had time to be the richest, most powerful woman in the world.”
“There are a number of scholars who think the mysterious Lady Lucretzia may well have been Lucretzia Borgia herself. The diplomat Niccolò Machiavelli drew both Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo back to their hometown of Florence, to have them complete a great commission. Da Vinci was working for Cesare Borgia, Lucretzia’s brother at the time.”
“So it is possible?”
“I hardly think so, although the circumstantial evidence is strong. The Borgia’s had many enemies, who widely embellished their exploits after they had fallen from power. If such an affair had occurred, their antagonists would certainly have mentioned it.”
“So who was this woman?”
“Machiavelli was a thoroughly unpleasant fellow, with many mistresses—he makes mention of them in his papers. His most notorious mistress was known as La Ricca, because of her wealthy demeanor, but Machiavelli also referred to her as Lucretzia, perhaps that was her real name, perhaps not—however, his papers do reveal that she had a reputation as a courtesan amongst the wealthier class in Florence.”
“Da Vinci painted a picture of a hooker?”
“The evidence is irrefutable. In the course of my studies into the High Renaissance I discovered a 1477 volume by Cicero, heavily notated by da Vinci’s contemporary Agostino Vespucci, in which he mentions, the painting of the Monna Lisa, the unveiling of the Statue of David and many other events of the time, including Leonardo’s execution of the portrait of Lucretzia.
“From Renaissance Italy, to Nazi Germany, that girl sure gets about.”
Professor Franklin raised a wry eyebrow, “Indeed she does.”
“You aren’t telling me the full story are you?”
“All in good time Mira, my dear, but first we have to go and see a dear friend of mine.” Franklin activated the cars voice dialing system and called a name. The computer system ran through the directory, and the electronic number notes quickly gave way to a dial tone. The phone rang, but no one picked up, just life-support beeps until the answer phone kicked in.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 15
Mira was still pondering her uncle’s mysterious words, as they turned off Sunset Boulevard, driving high into the Hollywood Hills. The white Bentley moved fast and silent, past the verdant, palm fringed estates of billionaires row, and into the snaking turns of Beverly Glen. As they drove higher, the soft Pacific breeze was replaced by a thick humidity, a
live with the scent of eucalyptus and wild jasmine. Above, the sun burned down from a relentless sky, while all around, lush, sub-tropical vegetation pressed in on the road—high-fronded palms, dagger-tipped cypress’, and burgeoning olive trees, dipping low in the afternoon blue.
Mira closed her eyes and breathed deep, imagining they were driving the Italian Riviera, heading through a summer afternoon in Tuscany, Italy—the land of Leonardo da Vinci. She wondered what the great man would make of modern day Los Angeles, with it’s wide moving freeways and big-box executive buildings. Would he love it, or loathe it? Would he see the flying machines, ships, and automobiles as a triumph of his dreams, or a nightmare come true? Da Vinci was a man of taste and invention, an artist, scientist and engineer, given to wild visions of beauty and modernity. Mira was sure he would feel right at home—it seemed right that he would.
Driving up the mountainside, soft focus views of the city zipped past below. “This friend of yours, he know much about paintings?” asked Mira.
Professor Franklin slowed the car, and took a sharp left onto a narrow lane, shaded by scrub oak and low hanging pepper trees.
“You could say he is something of a collector,” said Franklin. “But he is also a man of reclusive habits, he guards his privacy jealously…and he is particularly averse to house calls, so we will need to employ equal measures of surprise and diplomacy if we are to solicit his assistance.”
“Sounds kind of kooky to me Uncle C.”
“We live in an intrusive age Mira my dear; an age where the sacred right of minding ones own business has to be actively pursued, if we are to enjoy any level of fulfillment in life. Don’t you agree?”
“It takes all kinds of crazy people to build a world, if you ask me. But you got to get out there and meet a bunch of them, if you want to make any kind of sense of life. Know what I mean?”
Franklin smiled, and nodded, a slow philosophical acknowledgment that spoke of long years of experience, “Ah, the refreshing optimism of youth—the world has much to offer of course—but the more we experience, the more we seek to distill that experience, and so it is with my acquaintance. He has fine tuned his world to a quite remarkable degree, filtering out distractions, so that he might focus on that which truly matters.”
The Bentley moved forwards, slowly now, heading through the trees, until suddenly they emerged at the foot of a private driveway, that snaked upwards, towards the Mulholland ridge-line. As they made the curve, Mira saw a great white building looming large through the trees—all black glass and white stone, an angular indictment against neo-modernist architecture.
“He lives here? It looks like the Getty Museum—how much did this place cost?”
“Some things, especially beautiful things, are beyond the measure of money my dear Mira. You will realize, given time, that the true measure of life is experience, rather than the rationality of the cold hard dollar.”
Mira snorted, gave her uncle a look, like he had to be kidding.
As they rounded the curved driveway the house grew larger through the trees.
There were police cars out front.
Mira turned towards her uncle, but stared resolutely ahead. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the yard, Mira could see it quite clearly—not only that, there was a slate grey sedan, angled across the driveway—it looked distinctly out of place in this billionaire’s eyrie.
“This doesn’t look good,” said Mira quietly.
“Indeed not,” said Franklin, his face hardening, as he eased the Bentley in behind the sedan. “Game face Mira. I will do the talking. Please do not engage in conversation of any kind with the police officers no matter what they ask you.”
“You know me Uncle C.”
“Indeed I do Mira, hence my direction. And please—under no circumstances relay the nature of our investigations.”
“Hells teeth Uncle C, I got you loud and clear already. You want me to stay in the car I will. Then you can make your house call worry free.”
“I am afraid that is out of the question, my dear. If I were to leave you in the vehicle, you would adjust the settings on my wireless.”
“Promise I won’t—if you ask extra nice.”
“Out of the car Mira and make lively.” Professor Franklin reached his Fedora off the back seat, and placed it on his head at a jaunty angle. He looked elegant and distinguished thought Mira, the product of an age of gentility—everything about the man was so sharp and evenly pressed, it hardly seemed natural.
As they walked up to the front of the house, Professor Franklin had a lively, purposeful swing to his stride. Mira double-timed in his wake, taking two steps to his one. Close to the front door, Mira saw a stocky dude, in a hounds-tooth jacket shooting the breeze with a uniformed cop. The guy in the jacket had a crumpled face and a drooping horseshoe moustache, worn without any sense of irony.
“Hey wassup,” said the guy in the jacket, “Can I help you folks with something”
Cornelius Franklin kept walking. “I sincerely doubt it detective.”
“Hey, you cannot go in there, this is a crime scene—in case you hadn’t noticed, so you and the little lady got some kind of business here—you better state it now.”
“Little lady?” snapped Mira, her face twisting with distaste.
The guy in the jacket held up his hands and danced in front of them, blocking their path, “This is a murder scene miss, and there ain’t no one getting in here today, except the county coroner…”
“A murder scene Detective? But a business associate of mine lives in this residence, a gentlemen of some long acquaintance.”
The uniform cop who had been standing with folded arms up until now, suddenly came to life, “You want me to get the boss, Detective Kozak?”
Kozak scowled, “I can deal with this—but thanks anyway.”
The cop refolded his arms and stared at them from behind impenetrable sunglasses; his tanned face tightened, latent energy building, as he chewed back a follow up comment.
“What exactly is the nature of your business sir?” asked Kozak.
“You could say that I am in the art business detective,” said Franklin amiably.
“The art business?” Kozak gave Professor Franklin a careful look, “There some reason I should know you mister?” he asked, his eyes alive with suspicion.
As he spoke, the house door cracked open and a heavy set Latino, with pomaded hair edged out, his eyes narrowing against the daylight. He saw Franklin and broke a wide smile, “Hola, mi amigo, I was wondering how long it would take you to come sniffing around. You see the see the buzzards circling or something?”
Professor Franklin clicked his heels and offered the curtest of nods, “Detective Ramirez, it is always a delight. Allow me to introduce my young niece Mira, she is from back east.”
“Back east you say? Welcome to Los Angeles amiga.” Detective Ramirez suddenly looked grave. You get a call through from Central Franklin?”
“On the contrary Detective, we were simply passing by, and I thought it might be appropriate to introduce my niece to a dear friend of mine.”
“Signor Elzorra—was a friend of yours?” asked Ramirez.
“Business associate is perhaps a better description of the relationship detective.”
“What ever he was, I got bad news for you Franklin, Signor Elzorra was murdered this morning—look, you better come in,” said Ramirez. He pulled the door wide, like a big boned concierge in a hotel doorway.
Professor Franklin gave Ramirez a tight expression, and stepped wordlessly into the house.
Inside the capacious entrance lobby, Mira was impressed from the get go. Although the exterior of the grand building boasted a modern look, the interior was decorated in an unusually chintzy style: baroque furniture, and many grandly ornamented picture frames, in various off-gilt colors, giving the impression they were very old indeed. There were statues too. Mira didn’t know much about sculpture, but she knew enough about the mythological worlds of the Anc
ient Greeks and Romans, to recognize a neoclassical statue when she saw one. Her uncle’s friend had quite a collection: gamboling nudes, winged nymphs and muscular warriors—all of them frozen in unspeakable acts of beauty. As for the paintings, religion featured heavily—tortured saints, bleeding Christ figures in various states of martyrdom, and a heavy emphasis on saintly virgins receiving heavenly wisdom.
“This place is like the Vatican or something,” gasped Mira. “Who lives like this?” But Mira’s words just echoed off the walls, because her uncle was already moving through the house at a rapid clip, taking in every fixture and fitting, with a bird like fascination.
“So Elzorra is dead, murdered you say?” asked Franklin his voice almost casual.
Ramirez looked grave. “We found him in the swimming pool—at least the pool guy did—we got to get a positive make, but it is only a matter of time.”
“Time detective? Either he is dead or he isn’t.”
“He caught one in the head—heavy caliber bullet—the clean up crew were tossing their breakfasts when they saw the mess.”
Professor Franklin reeled around, and bounced his cane on the ground, catching it mid air. “Is there anything missing from the house detective?”
“You kidding me?” snapped Ramirez. “Where do you start in a place like this? The last time I saw this much Antique crap was when my wife dragged me over to New York to see that fusty old museum they got there, that place is so old it could hatch out a dinosaur egg.”
“You mean the Metropolitan Museum of Art?” wondered Mira aloud.
Ramirez paused, looked at her briefly—then, searched the mid-distance with puzzled eyes, his mouth hanging open before he spoke, “I don’t know what the hell that place was called, but I was praising God to get out of there, I can tell you that—a thousand rooms full of all that culture stuff—I was screaming for a cold beer and a chili-dog before I was even half way round—and boy did my feet hurt, let me tell you. You ever been to that dump?”