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Copyright ©2008 by Dell Magazines
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Cover illustration by Norman Saunders, from the collection of Robert Lesser
CONTENTS
Fiction: MURDER AT MONTEFUGONI by Margaret Maron
Fiction: THE BOY WHO CRIED WOLFE by Loren D. Estleman
Fiction: BETWEEN THE DARK AND THE DAY by Tom Piccirilli
Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
Fiction: SPLIT/BRAIN by Joyce Carol Oates
Fiction: LAST ISLAND SOUTH by John C. Boland
Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen
Fiction: AN OBJECT OF SCANDAL AND CONCERN by Robert Barnard
Fiction: STORM SURGE by Meenakshi Gigi
Fiction: THE GIRL FROM THE PLEASURE HOUSE by Simon Levack
Fiction: WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY? by Bill Pronzini
Fiction: PROOF OF LOVE by Mick Herron
Fiction: THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN by Judith Cutler
Fiction: EVENT RISK by Mike Wiecek
Department of First Stories: AN ILL WIND by Amelia Symington
Fiction: THE PEAHEN by Twist Phelan
Fiction: THE ROCK by Edward D. Hoch
Passport to Crime: NAUSICAA'S BALL by Paul Halter
Fiction: AFTER BABYGIRL by Jean Femling
Fiction: THE WICKERN BOYS by Stephen Ross
Fiction: DIAMOND RUBY by Joseph Wallace
NEXT ISSUE...
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Fiction: MURDER AT MONTEFUGONI by Margaret Maron
Art by Ron Bucalo
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Death's Half Acre, the 14th book in Margaret Maron's acclaimed Deborah Knott series, will appear in bookstores around the time this issue mails to subscribers. But while Knott fans have been able to follow her in a new book almost every year for more than a decade, the same is not true for fans of the earlier Maron character Sigrid to life, and centerstage, again.
"...so I ask you again, Miss Harald. Who wanted him dead?"
"And I tell you again, Inspector Giordano. I don't know. I only met these people last evening."
he weekend began innocuously enough when Elliott Buntrock, one of New York's most respected art curators, shifted his chair to get out of the hot Italian sun and said, “It'll be fun.” Seated in a sidewalk cafe a few quiet streets away from the Ponte Vecchio where tourists swarmed like mindless ants, he offered his companion a crostino thickly smeared with chopped black olives and said, “I'll rent a car. We could be at the castle forty minutes after we check out of our hotel."
The slender, dark-haired woman who sat across the table from him accepted the appetizer, but declined the suggestion. “I'm not a castle person, Elliott. Why can't we stay here in Florence?"
"Florence is hot and crowded and all the real Florentines are up in the hills. It's Tuscany, Sigrid. I bet you've never seen the Tuscan countryside."
"We're not here to look at landscapes.” She picked dubiously at the wild-boar salad he had persuaded her to order. “We came to retrieve Nauman's paintings from that gallery."
"And their attorneys say we can't have them until Monday, so why not spend the weekend where it's cool and relaxing? I promised an old friend who's leading a tour of art enthusiasts that I'd speak to his group and he's comping me to an apartment at the castle. It would be churlish not to go. Besides,” he said, knowing one of the reasons for her edgy impatience, “the place has its own swimming pool. A real pool, Sigrid, and Jim says it's never crowded."
And with good reason, Sigrid Harald thought, stroking arm over arm through the cool clear water a few hours later. More a short-term rental lodge than a hotel, the Castello di Montefugoni was built atop a steep hill and its views of trees and vineyards and more castles on distant hills were as spectacular as Elliott had promised. The self-service apartment that Dr. Jim Olson, Buntrock's friend, had booked for them was airy and spacious: two large bedrooms and an even larger dining/sitting room with a small galley and furnishings that were comfortably shabby.
Unfortunately, there were no elevators and the pool was down three long flights of ancient stone steps. All very well to learn that Dante and Boccaccio had climbed these very same steps, it still took a fairly determined swimmer to make the trek. Despite the endless stairs, though, Sigrid would have gladly walked them twice over to get to this pool. Swimming was her one reliable stress-reliever and these last few months had pushed her almost to the breaking point.
Two years ago, she had been an NYPD homicide detective leading an uncomplicated life. Now, thanks to a hasty will written by her lover shortly before he died in a car wreck, she owned an estate worth millions. She first met Oscar Nauman when one of his colleagues was murdered, and the end of her investigation marked the beginning of their affair. She had vaguely known that he was one of the giants of the art world, but modern art left her cold. It was the man himself who had attracted her, not his reputation, and she had been devastated by his death.
Almost as devastating was the realization that she could not continue to work for the NYPD and manage Nauman's estate, too, a decision made somewhat easier by a new boss who clearly resented her and never missed a chance to let her know it.
Professionally, she had been confident of her skills in solving tricky homicides, but she was unnerved to discover that collectors, gallery owners, and museum directors could be every bit as cutthroat as any hardened con men. Witness the Florentine gallery that had taken two of Nauman's paintings on consignment before his death and now claimed the authority to buy them outright at the original price although they had since doubled in value.
It was Nauman's friend Elliott Buntrock who had argued that the only way to get the pictures back was to come over and take physical possession of them herself. In this age of instant communication, she was infuriated that it should take a face-to-face meeting to handle the situation, but here in the water, her tension began to drain away. Swimming had gotten her through the worst of her grief after Nauman's death. It would get her through settling his complicated estate and disposing of his pictures. In giving herself up to the water, she could let her mind float blankly, aware of nothing except the water itself.
When fully relaxed, she climbed from the pool and sluiced off at a shower almost hidden in a stone wall thickly covered in ivy. As she wrapped a towel around her wet body, an attractive blonde passed, gave her a friendly nod, and continued on to one of the deck chairs, where she dropped her towel and sunglasses and stood for a moment on the edge of the deep end. She appeared to be in her early forties and her well-toned body showed firm muscles.
"Is it cold?” she asked.
"Not really. Not once you're in,” Sigrid said.
The woman executed a shallow dive that took her halfway across the pool's width and there was a happy grin on her face when her head broke the surface. “Wonderful!"
"Hope I'm not interrupting?"
Sigrid glanced around to see a middle-aged man in red plaid swim trunks with a towel draped around his neck. His smile included both of them, but his eyes were on the woman in the water.
"I was just leaving,” Sigrid said and walked down the long grassy allée. As she neared the terrace steps, a voice called down to her.
Looking up, she saw Elliott Buntr
ock leaning over the balustrade of the terrace above. Interviewers often used long-legged bird images to describe his looks; and from this angle, his bony face and angular limbs did give him the appearance of a huge, if decidedly exotic, bird. He stood with his arms outstretched on either side, his hands on the ledge, so that the front of his linen jacket swung wide like stork wings.
"Do you see a grotto down there?” he asked.
Directly beneath the terrace and out of his sight was a semicircular alcove built into the wall. A chain across the front discouraged viewers from entering. Inside, the walls seemed to be made of gray mud daubed on by the trowel-load. Life-size statues of young men stood in niches around the walls and a colorful fresco brightened the domed ceiling.
"I guess you'd call it a grotto,” she said doubtfully.
"Are there frogs?"
The late-afternoon sun had cast deep shadows across the terraced gardens, but at the back of the alcove, she could make out a Grecian-looking goddess who seemed to be imploring heaven for a favor. At her feet were two young children and a figure that had the legs of a man and the body of a frog. More frog faces peered back at her from around the edges.
"Several,” she answered, but by then she heard his sandals clacking on the stone steps as he came down to join her.
He carried a digital camera and his homely face lit up as he took in the details of the grotto.
"Wonderful!” he murmured happily and folded his sticklike body in half to duck under the chain, whereupon he immediately began taking pictures.
Sigrid did not bother to point out that this was probably forbidden. Instead, she asked, “What's the symbolism?"
"Metamorphosis. The goddess is changing them into frogs."
"Why?"
"Go read your Ovid for the long version,” he said as he clicked away. “Short version? Leto came to a village spring with her children and asked for a drink of water, but the oafish villagers—those louts there—” He gestured to the statues of young men who menaced the goddess with rocks and sticks. “—refused and then stomped around to muddy the water so that she couldn't drink. At that point, she decided that if they thought mud was so funny, then they could live in it the rest of their lives and she started turning them into frogs. See the terror in that guy's face? He's just realized what's in store for him."
He shot more pictures, then slipped back under the chain and smiled at her. “Good swim?"
"Very,” she said with an answering smile and her gray eyes shone almost silver in this light.
Despite high cheekbones and a thin nose, she was not conventionally beautiful and there was nothing sexy about her slender body, yet Buntrock no longer wondered why Oscar Nauman had been so intrigued. Her neck was too long, her mouth too wide, her chin too strong, and her smiles were rare. But when she did smile, it left no doubt as to why his friend had fallen in love with her.
"Hope you don't mind, but I told Jim Olson we'd join them for drinks this evening."
Earlier, and she might have balked. So soon after her swim, she merely said, “What time?"
When they arrived shortly before six, five of Dr. Olson's seven-member group had already gathered in the apartment shared by Hugh Jensen and Darryl Jensen, two wealthy cousins who could have been brothers. Both were small, pudgy men of late middle-age with thinning gray hair, and both were at least six inches shorter than Sigrid, who, at five-ten, immediately found a chair and sat down so that she would not tower over them. Not that Darryl Jensen would have minded. He seemed like the effervescent, sweet-tempered yang to his cousin Hugh's waspish and more volatile yin.
He poured her a glass of wine while Hugh Jensen made testy remarks about the lack of window screens. His face was blotched with angry red mosquito bites and he acted as if Dr. Olson were responsible for each and every one.
Jim Olson was a lanky, white-haired six-footer with a broad Midwestern face that made him look more like a dairy farmer than a professor of art history. He looked down at Hugh Jensen now with the same look of puzzlement that a kindly mastiff might give a yipping dachshund.
"Anybody have some insect repellant they could share with Hugh?"
Sigrid had caught a whiff of Off from the two gray-haired women seated nearby, but both shook their heads.
"Sorry, Hugh,” he said, then introduced the two newcomers: “Elliott Buntrock, who'll be speaking to us tomorrow about the Severini frescoes, and his friend Sigrid Harald."
He rattled off the names of the others, and Sigrid learned that the man who had spoken to her at the swimming pool was Gene Gallins. As he and the two cousins began to discuss the region's red wines with Buntrock and Olson, the older of the two women smiled at Sigrid. “You probably didn't catch our names. I'm Barbara Rosser. And this is my business partner, Alexa Hayne."
"Partner?"
"Custom framing and art supplies,” said Alexa, who was a few years younger and at least three inches shorter. “We own a little shop near Jim's university."
The little shop must do quite well, Sigrid thought. Their linen shirts and slacks clearly came from an upscale boutique, and she was willing to bet that the wide gold cuff Alexa wore and the emerald earrings that sparkled on Barbara's ears were genuine.
Abruptly, Sigrid realized that she was still acting like a police detective sizing up suspects at a murder scene. That was all in the past now, she told herself bleakly. She had never been good at the small talk of social gatherings, but this was to be her world now: art and art lovers. Nevertheless she lowered her voice and said, “The mosquitoes don't bother you?"
The intensity of Alexa Hayne's reply startled her. “Odious little man! If he were dying of thirst, I wouldn't give him a teaspoon of warm spit."
"Now, Alexa,” said her partner. “Every tour we've ever taken has had its Hugh Jensens."
"Not rolled into one economy-size package."
"True,” Barbara Rosser agreed. “Have you ever toured with a group, Sigrid?"
"No."
"Well, you're young yet. Jim's are always small and intimate. Most of us either know each other or have mutual friends. At our age, it's nice not to have to worry about hotels or restaurants and he builds in flexibility so that you can putter around a town on your own. If you're dying to see a particular church or museum that isn't on the itinerary, Jim'll make sure you do. This is our third trip with him."
"Spain last year, Germany the year before,” said Alexa. “When there are more than nine of us, his son Eric comes along to drive a second van, but our group is smaller than usual this year."
"And fewer people seems to magnify any little personality quirks,” said Barbara.
"Pompous, know-it-all rudeness is not a ‘little personality quirk,'” Alexa snapped.
Barbara rolled her eyes, but Alexa was already citing chapter and verse of Hugh Jensen's offenses: If leaving for a day trip in the van, he would be the last one out of the hotel. If meeting for the return drive, he would always come strolling up at least fifteen minutes later than the time agreed upon.
"And he makes sure he gets the best seat in the van, while Barbara—” Alexa Hayne's black eyes glistened as she looked at her friend.
The older woman put a restraining hand on her partner's arm. “Alexa babies me. My back does give me a little trouble, but because we're always on time, we wind up climbing into the back of the van while Hugh helps himself to a seat in the middle row where it's easier to get in and out."
"So why not take those seats yourselves?” Sigrid asked.
"Because then he moans about how bumpy it is back there and how the air conditioner doesn't reach to the back, or else he makes Jim stop the van so he can take pictures and whoever's sitting in the middle row next to the door has to move to let him out. It's easier to let him have his way."
Barbara gave a rueful smile. “I know, I know. Giving in like that only reinforces his selfishness, but Italy was always my favorite country. We're here to relax and enjoy its beauty and we don't have the time or the energy to stage
a confrontation."
"In Venice, though, we missed our one chance at the Tiepolo ceiling because Hugh got us thoroughly lost,” Alexa said. “We knew the museum would close for renovations the day after we arrived, but there would have been plenty of time that first afternoon except that he insisted on finding some mask-maker's studio that was supposed to be on the way."
"And we can't say a word because it so distresses Darryl, and he's such a sweetie. Everything Hugh isn't."
"Ah, there you are!” cried the object of their dislike as the last two members of the group entered carrying lumpy packages that they deposited with others on a table by the door. “Better late than never."
"You're one to talk,” snapped Sabra Lyle, the athletic swimmer who had dived into the pool as Sigrid was leaving it.
To Sigrid's surprise, the man behind her was Taylor Williams, an old friend of her mother's and a professional photographer who had published several well-received coffee-table books on lesser-known artists.
"Sigrid!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here? How's your mom? Adjusting to married life nicely, I hope?"
Before they could begin to catch up, Hugh offered a tour of the apartment. Part of Montefugoni's charm was that no two apartments were alike. Some had frescoed walls, others had allegorical pictures on the ceiling. Some windows opened onto the rather plain courtyard, others overlooked the hills. The first bedroom was Hugh's, a beautiful large space with a good view. After all that Barbara and Alexa had told her, Sigrid was not surprised to see that the bedroom with only one window and no view belonged to Darryl, who confessed that he hadn't noticed any mosquitoes on that side. ("They never bite me, anyhow.") Two steps up from the common room was a smaller sitting area where more steps led to a locked wooden door, behind which were the Severini frescoes that Elliott was to lecture on tomorrow morning.
"They're marvelous!” Hugh pronounced with proprietary pride, as if he had been extra clever in getting this particular apartment.
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 1