Mysterious Ways

by Julia Talbot

  He looked for books on family crests and willed his cock to go down, and soon enough it did, leaving him relieved, and able to concentrate on his research. It was a frustrating project at best, but Jacob loved nothing more than to delve into history.

  The next few days were idyllic. He ate his meals with the family, who generally consisted of Cecilia and Marco, Giovanni and Terri. The twins came and went like the cats he now associated them with. He worked on the painting in his studio and ploughed through book after book in the library, looking for any reference to the winged sea lion, with no real success. Before he knew it, it was Sunday, and time to go to Mass. He hadn't once seen the other Venetti paintings in the house, and Terri hadn't given him any source information regarding the Church and the painter. He hadn't thought about it until now, and that in itself amazed him.

  The family, he found out from the maid, Cristina, had a private chapel where they heard mass and received communion. Of course. Jacob had not been invited to attend. Cristina, who had taken something of a fancy to him, asked him to accompany her, and he accepted gladly, knowing he'd never make it back to the church at the University in time. They went to a beautiful old church nestled into the narrow, twisted streets in the older section of town. When he walked through the doors, Jacob experienced another one of those moments of disorientation, of wrongness, and it shook him to the core. He'd been too wrapped up in his new and relentlessly secular little world. He'd have to make up for that, and soon.

  Hearing the mass and going to confession soothed him. Jacob felt as if the world titled back on its axis to the proper angle. He was calmer, and he knew he had missed church, without really missing it, if that made any sense. Cristina's family asked him to eat with them afterwards, which he declined as graciously s he could. He decided instead to walk for a while and get a feel for a part of the city he hadn't really explored yet. That was the problem with being both a priest and an art scholar. You spent most of your time inside institutions that had no need for contact with the outside world. And after a few days at the Miggliozzi house, Jacob felt as though he had simply traded one museum for another.

  The priest was standing at the doorway of the church, shaking hands and inquiring about family when Jacob walked out. He was starting down the steps when he felt a hand descend on his arm. He turned and the priest smiled at him.

  “Scusi,” he said, then continued in English. “American, yes?”

  “Yes.” Jacob smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

  The other priest smiled back and shook his head. “No. But you came here with Cristina Ghiradelli. So, I think you must be the young American priest.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Good.” The man patted his arm. “Stay for a moment? I need to finish here, but then I would like to talk to you.”

  Surprised but happy to oblige, Jacob nodded and went back into the church. He spent the wait wandering around, admiring stained glass and polished wood, and breathing in the scent of lemon oil and lingering perfume. He liked this church. It was simple, but beautiful and he thought he might just make it his home away from home, whenever he needed perspective and distance from the Miggliozzi house. He settled into a pew at the back of the church and let his mind wander, enjoying the cool and quiet.

  The priest's name was Father Bertolli. When he was done with the thank yous, he left his young assistant in charge of any stragglers and led Jacob off for an excellent lunch of cold meat and cheese and warm, crusty bread. Jacob would have protested, but the middle-aged man with the kind but shrewd eyes wouldn't let him get away with it. You took what the Lord provided, he said, and were grateful. They chatted amiably, Jacob's fair Italian mixing with the Bertolli's decent English to form a wonderful tapestry of language. It was only after the meal was finished that Father Bertolli got down to business.

  “So,” he started when they were both replete, leaning back to accommodate full bellies. “You are working at the Palazzo Miggliozzi, then?”

  “Yes, they've graciously let me come and study their collection.”

  A raised brow came presaged a question. “Collection of what?” The tone was almost snide, and Jacob looked at Father Bertolli closely, trying to gauge his expression. The Father's face remained impassive, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and Jacob was relieved, deciding he must have been teasing.

  “Their collection of paintings by a rather obscure Venetian painter.”

  “Matteo Venetti?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “He may be rather obscure to you, and not terribly popular with the Church, but he was a rather infamous Italian. And we like our infamous citizens, we Italians. I studied him in history, just like everyone else. Besides, it's well known that the Miggliozzis have a large collection of his paintings.”

  “That's certainly true.” Jacob thought for a moment. “You say he's not popular with the Church. You're the second person to say that to me, and it comes as something of a surprise to me. They tell me the University is offering to sell a newly discovered Venetti to the Miggliozzis as a matter of fact. I'd love to hear your opinion. Why on earth would they do that?”

  Crossing his hands over his belly and stretching his feet out in front of him, Father Bertolli took on a lecturing tone. “Well, first of all, he was excommunicated. You know that, right?”

  “I knew he committed suicide and was buried in a pauper's grave.”

  “Yes, but that was after.”

  “Really?” Jacob hadn't heard that, which amazed him, though with a subject as enigmatic as Venetti, one could easily be an expert on the paintings and not the man “What did he do?”

  “Oh the accusations were endless. They say he sold his soul. I think what actually got him was Easter, but it was one of those things like your Al Capone. Take the little crime like tax evasion and jail him for it to make up for the big things.”

  “Easter,” Jacob repeated incredulously. “You mean he didn't confess.”

  “Exactly.” Father Bertolli shrugged. “You know how the Church was back then. Not so different than now really, except that it had even more power. An Inquisitor could do whatever they wanted. At any rate, the paintings of Matteo Venetti and the Miggliozzi family are well suited to each other.”

  That startled a laugh out of Jacob. “I'm told they don't get on well with the Church.”

  “The Church is rather afraid of them I think.” The Father leaned in and took on a serious expression. “May I offer some advice, Father Ellory?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be careful with the Miggliozzis. And the Rossis. Cecilia and her brothers especially. They do not think like we do. They don't follow our rules. Study your painting. Write your paper. Move on before you are sucked in. Do you understand?”

  Defensive, Jacob felt a blush heat his face and he damned his pale skin. “No, Father, I don't think I do.”

  “Perhaps you will soon. Just keep my words in mind.” The other priest stood and Jacob knew their lunch was over. He rose too, and thanked his host for the excellent meal. They parted with a friendly goodbye, and an admonition from Father Bertolli that if Jacob ever needed a Father Confessor, or just a friendly ear, he would be there. As he made his way back to the Palazzo, Jacob tried very hard to convince himself that he had no idea what the other father had meant.

  Chapter 3

  It was slow going. Jacob found that as cooperative as Terri and the household staff seemed, they could be remarkably inefficient when they wanted to. It took almost a week after his meeting with Father Bertolli to get Terri to let him into the main Venetti collection. It took another two or three days to get his hands on even a fraction of the documentation she promised him. He finally put his foot down and demanded it, and she smiled at him and told him of course, he could have it the next day.

  His access to the main part of the house was complete, though. The library, the grand entertaining rooms, the gorgeous little domed room off the west garden that had the ceiling painted in a visio
n of the skies and heaven so grand it hurt, all of this and more was open to him. The doors he most needed to open, however, seemed to stay resolutely closed.

  Sunday came again, and as he was getting ready to go to mass, having told Cristina he would, Terri knocked at his door. “I have those sale records for you, Jacob. Would you like to read them now? Or shall I have them taken to the library for you to read later?”

  “No. I'll take them now. I'll just drop them off at the library before I go to mass.”

  Something like amusement glinted in her eyes for a moment, but was gone too quickly for him to be sure. “Certainly, Father.” She handed him a folder stuffed full of photocopies and left him with a wave and a smile.

  Shaking his head, a little bemused by her attitude, Jacob headed for the library. He began leafing through the folder, and saw that it was full of copies of sale records, abstracts from older records, pictures of each painting in the collection, and authentication records. He was thrilled. This was more information in one chunk than he had received in two weeks. Jacob wandered down to the library, occasionally bumping into walls and stair rails as he read, only realizing when he arrived that he hadn't needed help finding the place. Settling himself at the large worktable he had appropriated for his research materials, Jacob pored over the information, and quickly lost himself in the history of Venetti's paintings.

  It seemed impossible when Terri mentioned it the first time, but it was soon apparent that she was right. Almost every Venetti in the Miggliozzi collection had once been owned by the Church. And within a few weeks of acquiring the paintings, the Church turned right around and sold them. What was even more interesting to him, though, was that the paintings were not sold to the Miggliozzi family. They were all recorded as being sold to the Rossis. Up to and including the brand new bill of sale for the new and as yet unnamed portrait of a lady, which was purchased two short days ago by one Alessandro Rossi of Palermo. He was, if Jacob remembered the gossip correctly, Cecilia's oldest brother.

  Possibly even more interesting were the authentication reports on each painting. Quite recently, they had all been appraised and authenticated for insurance purposes. Each set of papers was signed and dated by the appraiser from the insurance company, the Venetti expert (in most cases Teresa Bonnell) and a member of the Rossi family. The names were widely varied, ranging from the already mentioned Alessandro, to one of the twins, to Cecilia herself. Some of the names he had never heard before, but he filed them away for later. What stopped him cold was the seal carefully imprinted on each piece of paper. It was a grand medieval family crest, all flowing lines and rampant animals, and taking center stage was a magnificent winged lion with the tail of a sea creature. The only other one he had seen like it was on his mysterious lady in the Venetti portrait.

  Questions piled up in his head. He needed to make some phone calls and talk to Terri. Soon. But it would have to wait until after mass. Jacob tidied up and carefully tucked the papers away in their folder, intending to lock them up in his room, just in case. He glanced at his watch and was dismayed to see that it was mid-afternoon. He'd been so wrapped up in his studies that he had missed not only church, but lunch as well. Jacob's stomach chose that moment to remind him that food was a good thing. He shrugged. If he skipped dinner with the family Miggliozzi, he could go to evening mass at Father Bertolli's church. He nodded to himself, and trudged back to his room with the papers before wandering off to the kitchen to find something to munch on.

  The kitchen was one of those cavernous places full of stainless steel and copper that looked like it belonged in a four star restaurant. It did have one cozy corner, the domain of the housekeeper, not the cook. She made lace. He'd heard all about it the first time he'd gone down looking for a snack. Heard that and a long tirade about how that damned cook the lady had hired wasn't even family, and didn't even live in the house. Jacob smiled, and made for the enormous side-by-side refrigerator, knowing that was where the leftovers were kept.

  Just as he was settling in to eat a nice bit of antipasto, a high-pitched noise, a scream abruptly cut off, made him jump to his feet. He started towards the pantry, since the sound came from that direction, and listened closely, barely breathing. More noise, muffled thumps and grunts, and Jacob eased back into the dry storage area, ready to do who knew what to help if someone were buried under an avalanche of canned goods. There, in the very back corner of the dimly lit pantry, someone was struggling, apparently with the small stepstool that was used to reach the higher shelves.

  His mouth was already open to ask if he could help before the image burned into his eyeballs, and Jacob realized what he was seeing. A man, sitting on the stool and propped against the wall, with his legs spread out before him was holding a woman on his lap. His hands bracketed her hips and his fingers dug into her buttocks. She, in turn, straddled the man, moving up and down on him. Her breasts bounced as she rode, and her head was flung back in a posture of unrestrained delight. She had one hand stuffed into her mouth to muffle the sounds she was making, which would, no doubt, be very shrill.

  The woman was Cristina, the flirty maid. The man was Giovanni Miggliozzi, Marco's younger brother. They were like a pair of animals, grunting and shoving. Jacob could smell them, hot and musky, sweat and sex. He wanted to turn around and leave. Part of him was utterly disgusted by the display. The other part was even more disgusted, but with himself. It was fascinating to watch. They were primal, completely uninhibited. Their hands moved over each other greedily, his roaming from her breasts to her waist, but always coming back to her hips when he wanted to change the pace. Hers twisted in his chest hair and rubbed across his nipples, dipping every so often to the place between their legs to touch their joining.

  It took forever, but was over in mere minutes, and Jacob couldn't tear his eyes away from them. Soft and round, hard and muscular, they twisted and turned together like a scene from Venetti's Hell, a scene called lust. When they came, their bodies heaved and rolled, Giovanni's hips pumping up and up and Cristina clung to Vanni as she rode it out, finally collapsing in a breathless heap on his chest. Snapping out of his stupor, Jacob moved backwards, jerkily, towards the door. Giovanni's head came up, and their eyes met, the other man's dark stare burning into him, and Jacob blushed painfully. He stood there and stared back, unable to move any further until Giovanni smiled at him, slow and suggestive, and Jacob turned and bolted for the door.

  By the time he got back to his room, his legs shook and he was breathing like he'd run a mile. Which was entirely possible. He slammed the door behind him and locked it, and forgot about mass and food and anything else but the shame in him for his actions, and the heavy ache that spread from the pit of his stomach to his groin. When the family called for him at dinner, he pleaded a headache and hid in his room.

  Morning found him feeling ridiculous. Okay, so he had walked in on something he shouldn't have. And he'd been riveted. Who wouldn't be? People were naturally fascinated with things that were supposed to be private. He did, however, need to apologize to Giovanni, and he vowed he would do that sometime during they day. After he did a little research and got out of the house for a little while. He wanted to ask some questions. And he wanted to see Father Bertolli.

  Breakfast was not as tense as he expected, because they only person there was Teresa. Jacob kept the conversation light, the topics neutral, and made an appointment with her for later in the day. He made some calls afterwards, made a few more appointments, then escaped the confines of the house to go out and run errands in the city.

  The church was quiet on Monday morning, and peaceful. It smelled of wood soap and candles and all of the things that Jacob had considered right and good as a child. He breathed it all in, and it made him feel better, just as it always did. It quieted his jangled thoughts. Father Bertolli met him there and they went to his office to talk. He offered the father a bag of pastry he'd picked up on the way, and it was gratefully accepted.

  “So,” Father Bertolli began, �
��you wished to see me?”

  “I needed to talk to someone, Father.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  Sighing, Jacob tried to figure out where to begin. “I missed mass yesterday.”

  “That's hardly punishable by death.”

  “I know.” Jacob offered up a small smile. “But I feel like I was maneuvered into it. Then I think I'm just being paranoid. But, really, I feel like they're just playing games with me.”

  “The Miggliozzis you mean?”

  He nodded. “Getting information from them is like pulling teeth. But the manipulation is so subtle that I don't realize it's happening until it's too late.”

  “May I be blunt?” Father Bertolli dusted the crumbs of his late breakfast off his hands, and leaned forward, all seriousness. At Jacob's nod he continued. “I warned you to be careful with them. The price of your study on the Venetti paintings will be playing mouse to their cat. There's no other way with them. Are you prepared for that?”

  “I thought so. But I didn't realize...” Jacob trailed off. “I suppose I wasn't aware of the stakes before.”

  “I don't think you are now,” Father Bertolli said cryptically. “Still, there are ways. Make sure you get out of the house at least once a day. Don't get wrapped up in the fantasy.”

  “That's what I'm trying to do today.”