EQMM, September-October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

Jim Olson frowned. “You've already seen them?"

  "Of course! I persuaded the girl at the reception desk to unlock them this afternoon and let me peek in. The colors are as fresh as if they'd been painted yesterday instead of in the ‘thirties."

  "'Twenties,” Olson said, annoyed that Jensen had jumped the gun on the rest of the group. “They were painted in the nineteen-twenties."

  "Whenever.” He dismissed the correction with a wave of his pudgy fingers. “Is it show-and-tell time?"

  The others followed him out to the table in the common room and began to unwrap their packages. Several had shopped for masks at the last minute before leaving Venice and this was their first chance to share and compare.

  Gene Gallins unwrapped a glistening beauty, a colorful jester with little golden bells that tinkled when he laid it on the table.

  Sabra Lyle's mask was a large leaf enameled in full autumn colors and highlighted with touches of bronze and gold. “I bought these, too,” she said, laying three more leaf masks beside the first one. They were identical in shape, but had been left unpainted. “They'll be perfect for my office!"

  "Sabra's a landscape designer,” Jim told the two newcomers. “She did the gardens at Wexton Grove."

  Sigrid smiled politely, having no idea where or what Wexton Grove was; but Elliott looked impressed. Sabra Lyle's suntanned face and sturdy limbs suggested a hands-on gardener, a woman who hefted bags of peat moss or dug up rocks and did whatever else went into designing a garden.

  "I'll find someone to paint them for the other three seasons,” she said.

  "Maybe Gallins can do that for you, too," Hugh Jensen suggested with a knowing leer.

  Sabra ignored him, but Sigrid saw Gene Gallins's face darken briefly.

  Hastily, Alexa said, “What's yours, Darryl?"

  "A zanni.” The comical half-mask began with a harlequin's checkerboard forehead and cheeks and ended in a long pointed nose that stuck straight out at least eight inches. Darryl gave his cousin a sidelong grin full of mischief. “In the classical Commedia dell'arte, he's the clown that plays tricks on the main clown."

  "How on earth will you get it home without breaking that nose?” someone asked.

  "There's a shipping service in Florence,” said Olson. “They'll wrap and pack and guarantee safe delivery."

  "Mine will need extra insurance,” Hugh bragged, setting a canvas tote bag on the table. When he reached inside, though, he came up with only a handful of empty bubble wrap. He turned to his cousin in puzzlement. “Darryl? Did you do something with my mask?"

  "Nope. Where did you leave it?"

  "In my room.” He turned wrathfully to Jim Olson. “Dammit, Jim! You said it was safe to leave the doors unlocked and now it's gone! My three-hundred euro gilded devil mask."

  "How appropriate,” Alexa murmured in Sigrid's ear.

  "I demand that you question all the maids."

  "There aren't any maids,” Olson reminded him. “Everything's self-service, remember? No maids or bellmen wandering through the stairwells and halls. Besides, the office closed at six-thirty."

  "Then all the rooms must be searched at once."

  Jaws began to tighten as the others realized he was accusing one of them of theft.

  "Calm down, Hugh,” Olson said. “Maybe you left it on the van. We'll check when we go to dinner."

  Although Jensen continued to grumble, conversation became more general and Taylor Williams cornered Sigrid to talk about his latest project. She rather liked the man, but he did tend to go on and on. Just as she was beginning to wonder if she could catch Elliott's eye and signal the need for rescue, Jim Olson stood and tapped his watch. “Time to go, people. Our dinner reservation's for seven. If you want me to ship your masks, leave them here and I'll pick them up tomorrow. Okay, Darryl?"

  "Fine with me.” He looked at Hugh, who shrugged and said, “We'll leave the door unlocked, but we're not responsible if anything else goes missing."

  As everyone drifted toward the stairs, Olson told Buntrock, “Sorry I can't invite you to join us, but we had to reserve three weeks ago."

  "That's okay. We're dining here. We heard that the castle chef cooks a mean risotto con tartufi."

  This was news to Sigrid, but welcome news. After so much chitchat, she was glad to skip an elaborate dinner with the others.

  "But stop in for a nightcap later,” Buntrock said. “I've picked up a nice Brunello."

  * * * *

  It was ten-thirty before Olson tapped at their half-open door. Sigrid glanced up from the book she was reading and Elliott immediately got up to uncork the wine.

  "Sorry to be so late,” said Olson, “but I had to find some sleeping pills for Hugh and persuade Alexa to share some of her Off with him. Maybe if he gets a good night's sleep, he'll be in a better mood."

  "I take it his mask wasn't in the van?” Elliott said sympathetically.

  Olson shook his head. “If I'd known he was such a bastard to travel with, I would never have let him come on this trip, but Darryl asked and it never occurred to me that two cousins could be so different."

  As Elliott poured their wine, Sigrid said, “What do they do for a living?"

  "Nothing: They were trust-fund kids. Their grandmother Nancy was a Reedy before she married their grandfather."

  "Reedy?” Elliott's head swung around to peer at him like a curious stork. “As in the Reedy Foundation? Or the Corbett Reedy Investment Group?"

  "Corbett Reedy was her father, yes. Even after she set up the Reedy Foundation, there was still enough money to leave her grandsons very generous trust funds. Darryl collects prints and Hugh sits on the boards of various art-related institutions."

  He took a deep swallow of wine. “You know how that works, Elliott. Being a director gives any little prick like Jensen the power to step on a lot of toes. Take Gene Gallins. Granted he's not another Grant Wood or Andrew Wyeth, but he has talent and he has taste. Yet he didn't get a show at one of the museums in our area because Hugh convinced them that Gene's nothing more than a Sunday painter."

  "Gene Gallins and Sabra Lyle,” Sigrid said. “Are they sleeping together?"

  Jim promptly strangled on his wine and Elliott jumped up to pound on his back.

  "How on earth do you know that?” Olson gasped when he could speak again.

  She shrugged. “The way he looked at her in the pool. And his reaction to something Jensen said tonight."

  "They've been very discreet.” Jim coughed again and wiped his eyes with the napkin she handed him. “I make it a point not to notice things like that, but Sabra did pay the extra supplement so that she wouldn't have to share a room."

  "So why does Alexa hate him so much?” Sigrid persisted. “Surely it's not just because he's never on time or hogs the best seat on the van."

  Olson looked to Buntrock for help.

  "Sorry, Jim,” Elliott said. “What can I say? She used to be a cop."

  "I'm sorry, too,” Olson said. “But it's not something I can discuss and I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't speculate about it to the others."

  Sigrid regarded him a long moment, then nodded acquiescence.

  Their talk soon turned to reminiscences of bygone years and people Sigrid had never met: “You saw where The Loaded Brush ran a long interview with Lou Brown?” and “What's happening with Tang Cai?"

  "He lucked into a group show at the Penelope Gallery this fall,” Elliott said. Sigrid tried to look interested as they discussed whether the Chinese artist's visa would expire before he could establish a name for himself in the States.

  "What about that kid who did those intelligent lithographs? Lynn Palmour? What's she up to these days?"

  Olson looked down into his glass and gently swirled the wine. “She took an overdose last month."

  "What? Why?"

  "Remember how emotionally fragile she was? Her only brother was killed in a car crash over the holidays and then the one-woman show she was promised fell through."

 
Elliott shook his head. “What a waste. She was a damn fine artist with a lot of potential."

  "Yeah,” Olson said and held out his glass for a refill.

  As their talk turned to tomorrow's schedule, Sigrid quit trying to suppress her yawns and announced that she was going to bed.

  * * * *

  Even with unscreened windows, Sigrid slept unmolested by mosquitoes and emerged from her bedroom rested and refreshed next day. After an early swim in the deserted pool, she had intended to go straight back to the apartment, but the morning was so beautiful and the surroundings so peaceful that she paused in front of the grotto and looked out over the Tuscan landscape. In the far distance, a tractor labored up and down the steep hillside through row after row of grapevines. Nearer to the castle grounds were groves of greenish gray trees that Elliott had identified as olives. High overhead, swallows darted in and out of mud nests beneath the eaves of the castle and lacy mounds of red and pink geraniums tumbled over the edge of the terrace above.

  Despite the emotional undercurrents swirling around last night, it was nothing to do with her and she was glad that Elliott had insisted on their coming. The pool was worth putting up with a few social niceties. Today was Friday. She would go hear him speak about those frescoes, then take herself back to the pool or hole up in their apartment with a book. On Monday they would return to Florence, retrieve the paintings, and, with a little luck, be back on a plane to New York by Tuesday.

  As she passed the grotto, something caught her eye. She stopped short, looked closer, and almost laughed out loud. She had missed it coming down, but now she saw that one of the statues wore a gilded devil mask and leered at Leto with golden malevolence.

  Smiling to herself, Sigrid climbed the steps and crossed the loggia to her stairwell, where the aroma of bacon drifted down to meet her.

  "Just in time,” Elliott said, turning from the stovetop. “Come see how orange these egg yolks are! Laid by real free-range chickens, eating real grass."

  Suddenly ravenous, Sigrid dutifully admired them, then quickly changed into dry clothes. Elliott filled their plates with buttered toast, Italian bacon, and scrambled eggs, and as they ate, she told him about seeing Hugh Jensen's mask on one of the grotto statues. “Wonder who put it there?"

  "My money's on Darryl. He had the best chance, and Jim says he has a quirky sense of humor."

  Sigrid smiled, remembering the mischievous grin Darryl had given Hugh while explaining what the zanni mask signified.

  * * * *

  At ten o'clock, Sigrid and Elliott met Jim Olson in the large reception office off the main loggia. Several mismatched office desks had been arranged in a reverse L and castle business was conducted from the long side. The short side held a second computer for guests who could not bear to go too long without Internet access. The small staff doubled as needed around the castle and the attractive young woman on duty that morning was casually dressed in serviceable jeans and tank top. She plucked a large key from one of the pigeonholes on the rack behind her. It was five or six inches long and made of iron.

  Olson hefted it in his hand. “It always feels weird to hold a key that the Sitwells must have used."

  "Sitwells?” asked Sigrid, who owned a large collection of poetry. “Edith Sitwell?"

  "Didn't you know?” said Elliott. “Her father bought the castle around nineteen ten. He's the one who commissioned the Severini frescoes. There are stories that her brothers wanted Picasso, but the old man had met and liked Severini and since it was his money..."

  A few minutes later, he was repeating the same words to the group who had gathered in the Jensen apartment. Sigrid noticed that Hugh's diavolo mask was now on the table by the entrance hall, although nothing was said about it while Elliott finished his introductory remarks. “If Picasso had taken the commission, it would have no doubt been a cubist marvel, but by nineteen twenty-two, Severini had abandoned futurism, so now we get this!"

  He turned the iron key in the plain wooden door and threw it open with a dramatic flourish. As the others crowded in behind him, their admiration for the bright and colorful masked harlequins that covered the walls of the small gallery quickly changed to laughter.

  At the end of the room, Darryl Jensen lounged on the floor, his back against the wall. He wore the long-nosed mask he had bought in Venice and his dark blue pajamas that echoed the pantaloons in the frescoes.

  "How funny, Darryl!” said Alexa Hayne. “You look as if you could just reach up and take some fruit from that painted bowl."

  "You idiot,” Hugh said, as if annoyed that his cousin had thought of the joke first. “Here, let me give you a hand up."

  He reached for Darryl's hand, but there was no response.

  "Darryl? Quit clowning."

  "What's wrong?” someone cried as he slumped over. “Is he hurt?"

  Sigrid pushed past the babbling art lovers and quickly knelt to feel for the man's pulse.

  "Everybody out,” she said. “Now!"

  There was such authority in her voice that even Hugh obeyed.

  "Is he dead?” Jim Olson asked, his face ashen.

  "Yes,” she said succinctly.

  * * * *

  To Sigrid's bemusement, three separate police authorities responded to the call. First came the municipal officers, followed by the state and provincial.

  It was almost one o'clock before they sorted out who had jurisdiction and Sigrid was summoned to a room off the castle's courtyard.

  "My apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Harald.” The big man in a rumpled brown suit spoke with a distinct English accent. “I'm Inspector Giordano of the state police.” He introduced his associates, invited her to be seated at the table he was using as a desk, and looked at her doubtfully. “I'm told you're a police detective yourself? In New York?"

  "I resigned several months ago, Inspector."

  "But you did handle homicides?"

  "Yes."

  He gave a slight smile of approval. “Not one to waste words, are you? Good. Please describe the events you witnessed this morning."

  When she had finished telling him everything she had seen, including the devil mask on one of the grotto statues, he said, “Who killed him, Miss Harald?"

  Sigrid shook her head. “I met all these people for the first time last evening."

  "Nevertheless ... ?"

  "I'm sorry. I've formed no opinions."

  "No?"

  "No,” she said firmly and asked a question of her own. “Was he killed in Hugh's bed?"

  She saw him struggle with the decision as to whether she should be told anything, then he shrugged, as if realizing that she probably knew almost as much as he, or soon would.

  "Yes. We found signs on the pillowcase that he was smothered facedown while his arms were held immobile by the covers."

  "So no DNA under his fingernails,” Sigrid murmured, almost to herself. “Hugh blames himself. He made Darryl switch rooms because of the mosquitoes. You do realize that Hugh believes he was the killer's target?"

  "So he has told us,” the inspector said drily. “Several times. With increasing agitation. He's demanding that we let him leave before the killer succeeds. You observed these people last night. Which do you think was the intended victim?"

  "Probably Hugh. We met in their apartment before dinner last evening and were given a tour of the place, so everyone knew which bedroom was which. Darryl was well liked, while Hugh irritated nearly everyone. But how did the killer get Darryl's body into the Severini gallery? I saw three other doors. One opens onto a blank wall, the others were locked with thumb bolts from the inside. The receptionist says there's only one key and the office is locked at six-thirty, well before everyone left for dinner."

  "Did she also say that she found the key hanging on the doorknob of the office when she returned this morning?"

  "The killer took it before the office was locked last night and she didn't notice?"

  "So she says."

  Sigrid nodded thoug
htfully. “When I checked my e-mail this morning, I was left alone in the office for several minutes. The receptionist seems to run all over the castle. I assume the others were in and out of the office yesterday?"

  "All except Mrs. Barbara Rosser. She doesn't use the Internet, but—” He consulted the notes he had taken earlier. “—Mrs. Lyle, Mrs. Hayne, and Mr. Gallins were there when Mr. Hugh Jensen asked to see the frescoes. They would have seen where the key was kept and could have mentioned it to the others. And Dr. Olson, of course, has stayed here before. It's a very distinctive key. Easy to spot. So I ask you again, Miss Harald. Who wanted Hugh Jensen dead?"

  Again, Sigrid told him she could not say. Giordano let out a frustrated breath and gave a dismissive nod of his head. “Very well. Thank you for your help."

  "I wish I could have helped you more,” she said, suddenly homesick for the familiar routine of police work that had been taken from her.

  The big rumpled man behind the desk cocked his head as if understanding her hesitation. “Was it easy to walk away from the job?"

  "No."

  "You have no official standing here,” he warned her.

  "I know."

  "But you will ask questions?"

  "Probably."

  "And you will listen?"

  "I usually do."

  "Bene," he said, sounding Italian for the first time.

  * * * *

  Trying to form a logical theory, Sigrid crossed the courtyard and almost bumped into Dr. Olson.

  "Could I talk to you a minute?” she asked.

  "Sure."

  Sunlight silvered his white hair as he followed her out to a table on the terrace where they could talk undisturbed, almost hidden by several huge tubs of red geraniums. Unfamiliar birds twittered in the tall cypress trees and the golden Tuscan light only underlined how far from New York and her past life she now was.

  "Sorry,” Olson said, smothering a yawn. “Too much wine last night and now all this..."

  Sigrid came straight to the point. “Is Barbara Rosser dying?"

  He stared at her in disbelief. “How the hell—? Are you psychic or something?"

  "No. Just an ex-cop. I listen to people. Not only to what they say, but what they don't say. Alexa almost blurted it out to me last night, but Barbara stopped her. Then Barbara herself spoke of how Italy was always her favorite country. Was, not is. As if she never expected to come back."