Michelangelo's Ghost

by Gigi Pandian

  “Grazie, signora. If only it were not in the middle of the country. Bomboloni?” She gestured toward the platter of donuts.

  “Thank you.” I got up from my uncomfortable seat and helped myself to a round pastry with custard sticking out on top. One glance at the adjacent newspaper told me why it had been left out. The paper was open to the society pages. Included in the spread was a photo of Brunella and Enzo dressed in formalwear, smiling for the camera with two other people. The Roman Pantheon was visible in the background.

  “Mi dispiace. I forget to put this away.” Brunella reached so slowly for the newspaper that she appeared to be moving in slow motion. She was still fussing with the paper by the time I sat down in a more comfortable chair with my fried pastry.

  Enzo came back into the room. “My apologies. How can we assist you?”

  “As I mentioned when I got in touch, I’d love to know what you can tell me about your ancestor Lazzaro Allegri.”

  “I have heard many things about my family who came before me,” Enzo said. “But one never knows what to believe. I fear I would be telling you only fiction.”

  “His father embellished everything,” Brunella said. “He made it impossible to know what was true and what was a fairy tale.”

  “Sì, sì,” Enzo said. “You must speak with Francesco. He is the man who knows the history of these parts best.”

  I couldn’t contain a smile. A local historian was worth his weight in gold. “Could you give me his contact information?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Brunella giggled and plopped down in the first chair I’d abandoned. “He does not mean to refuse you. We don’t have his phone number. Do you know his surname, Enzo?”

  He shook his head. “But I know where you can find him. Francesco works at the Parco dei Mostri.”

  “Are you sure she should talk with him?” Brunella asked Enzo.

  “Why not? He is full of historical information. Oh, you mean because—”

  “Sì.”

  “Because of what?” I asked, watching their animated expressions.

  “No matter,” Enzo said. “He is…come si dice? A character. Larger than life, I think you would say. You understand? If you visit, ask anyone for Francesco. They will know him.”

  “Thank you. I’m visiting the park this afternoon, so I’ll be sure to ask for him. I also understand you met with an American Professor, Lilith Vine. She’s how I found you.”

  “Ah!” Enzo said. “I wondered. But I think you must be as brilliant as you are bella, so no man can hide, eh?” He chuckled.

  “Strange woman,” Brunella said. “A very strange woman.”

  “She came to our home for dinner once,” Enzo said. “She drank as if she is five men, not one woman.”

  “That’s Lilith,” I said.

  “This is not the strange part,” said Brunella. “She refused wine from our cellar! She wanted spirits—” Brunella shuddered, “—with ‘mixers.’”

  “I’m sorry to tell you she passed away,” I said.

  “Passed?” Brunella repeated, then reddened.

  “I am most sorry to hear this,” Enzo said.

  “I’m carrying on her research.”

  “Sì,” Enzo said. “I’m sorry if you came all this way for what we can tell you, because we don’t know much, as I tell you over email. I believe Professoressa Vine saw the ghosts of history where there were none. She believed in a figment of my ancestor’s imagination.”

  “You could be right,” I said. “I don’t believe her theory about where to find Lazzaro Allegri’s artwork was correct. But I’m hoping that even though you don’t personally know more about your family history, there might be more documents.”

  “Sì, sì,” Enzo said. “Is a good idea. What else do you need?”

  “You sold Lilith Vine some sketchbooks,” I said.

  “Lent,” Enzo corrected. “She paid to borrow them. You have them to return?”

  “Oh?” That answered one question. “I didn’t realize that. But once I return home I can get the three notebooks back to you.”

  “Four,” Brunella said.

  “What?”

  “Four books with the art inside,” Brunella said. “Quattro. Not three. From the attic with the rest of Enzo’s family junk.”

  Four. Not three.

  That’s what Lilith had tried to tell me on the phone. That there was a missing notebook. I misheard her slurred words and thought she’d said that I “must know therefore,” but what she had been trying to say wasn’t “therefore,” but there were four.

  What had happened to the fourth notebook?

  Chapter 21

  “You’re certain?” I asked. “Four notebooks.”

  “Sì, sì,” Enzo said.

  “Yes,” Brunella agreed. “Enzo made the copies. Where are they, Tesoro?”

  Enzo scowled at the floor.

  “I know you hate the attic,” Brunella snapped. “But Professoressa Jones needs them. Must I do everything?” She stood and smoothed the wrinkles of her tight dress.

  “Tito’s machine was broken,” Enzo said. “Professoressa Vine was trustworthy. She signed a receipt. There seemed no reason—”

  Brunella cut in with sharp words directed at Enzo. She spoke in rapid Italian, so I didn’t catch what she said, but by her tone she seemed to be admonishing him.

  “Sì, sì,” Enzo said, slinking backward and looking as if he were about to fade into the life-size painting on the wall. “I know if we lived in Rome as you wished we would be near a copy center. And good restaurants. And a beauty parlor. But then we would not have my ancestral home.”

  “It’s a beautiful home,” I said.

  Brunella’s eyes narrowed. “It is beautiful, yes. But if you had to spend the winter in these stone walls, you too would wish for an apartment in Roma.”

  I left the bickering Allegris and went in search of Ava. What had happened to the fourth sketchbook? Why had Lilith withheld that information from me?

  I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer. She wanted the credit. I was a pawn. I could help her get close to Lazzaro’s paintings, then with a key clue in that missing sketchbook, Lilith could sweep in and take the credit.

  When she realized she was dying, she wanted to tell me. Unless…Could the Allegris be lying? Had they kept a fourth notebook they found in the attic? No, that made no sense. It would have been simple enough to not tell me about the fourth notebook. Lilith had known about it, but failed to tell me until she was dying. Most importantly, the Allegris had no motive to lie. Lazzaro’s paintings were theirs. It would have been to their advantage for me or Lilith to find them.

  Standing in front of the massive house, I saw no sign of Ava. As I walked through the gardens, I tried calling Lane again. His phone was still disconnected. I didn’t like this at all.

  The more I learned, the less I knew. I groaned. In my surprise at learning about a fourth sketchbook, I’d forgotten to ask them about the “dangerous” area on the map. I hurried back to the front door, but stopped myself before knocking when I heard their raised voices. I understood enough words to understand Brunella was still upset at Enzo about the missing notebook. I’d return the three notebooks Lilith had borrowed once I was home and could retrieve them, but unless I figured out what was going on, the fourth piece of history would be gone forever. I backed away from the door and went in search of Ava. I could ask this Francesco fellow about the area I’d been warned away from.

  I wandered through the lush gardens that surrounded the castle-like house. These were different from those at the Park of Monsters. There were no sculptures here. This garden instead was made up of well-tended plants, most of which I didn’t recognize. Flowers of every color of the rainbow bloomed on the grounds, all bracketed by evergreen trees that gave the land a cozy feeli
ng.

  I found Ava sketching some beautiful purple flowers growing in window boxes in front of a house that looked like an in-law unit not far from the castle. This must have been where servants had lived in past centuries.

  “Any luck finding out what you needed?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. I looked over her shoulder at the charcoal sketch of the flowers. “You’re very talented.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, quickly flipping the notebook shut. “An artist isn’t a practical occupation for a single mom.”

  “Everyone needs a hobby. I play tabla at an Indian restaurant two nights a week.”

  “Your brother told me about your drumming. I think for a while he was worried you’d work at a restaurant for the rest of your life.”

  “He told you how I waitressed for a few years between high school and college?”

  “Since you graduated early, it makes sense as a life choice to me.” Ava slipped her sketchbook into her purse and we walked down the path to where we’d parked the rental car.

  “I bet you wouldn’t say that to your son if he wanted to do the same thing.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She laughed and looked out over the flowers. “I have no idea what Carey will become, but I know it’ll be something great.”

  Sun poked through overhanging tree branches, sprinkling us with sunlight as Ava navigated the winding roads back to the villa. It was such a peaceful drive that when my phone rang, it startled us both. I extracted the phone from my messenger bag with a good feeling it was Lane calling to tell me he’d made a mistake by ending things without talking to me. My face fell when I saw it was the number for the villa.

  “What’s up, Fish?”

  “I thought you would be back by now. It’s nearly one o’clock. Should I wait for you for lunch?”

  “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I clicked off the call and tossed the phone back into my bag.

  “Who were you hoping for?” Ava asked.

  “You noticed?”

  “I consult with international businesses. It’s part of my job to be good at reading people. It’s a guy, isn’t it? You were hoping it was your friend Sanjay who Mahilan mentioned?”

  “There’s a guy. Not Sanjay.”

  “No?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t everything?” She looked wistfully at the gravel road. “You think I like being away from Carey so much? But we all have to make choices. I feel so lucky to have met Mahilan. I didn’t expect what I felt—” She shook her head and maneuvered the SUV around a tight bend in the narrow road. Once the road straightened, she stole a glance at me. “You’re worried. Why?”

  “I care more about this guy than I want to. It’s a long-distance relationship. If I can call it that. I don’t even know if it’s real, which is why I haven’t told Mahilan. Please don’t tell him what I’m telling you. I shouldn’t even be saying anything, except I’m worried.”

  “I won’t say anything. And I’m sure you don’t need to worry.”

  “His phone is disconnected.”

  “For how long?”

  I thought about it. “A day?”

  She laughed. “I’m sure he forgot to pay his phone bill. He’ll realize it soon enough.” She was silent for a few moments before continuing. “You know, I wasn’t sure what to think of you from your brother’s description, but you’re even more amazing than advertised. Which is saying a lot, because Mahilan adores you. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation about your boyfriend’s phone.”

  Lane Peters was off the grid. There was no innocent explanation in sight.

  Chapter 22

  Back at the villa, I told Mahilan and Ava to go on to lunch without me, and to order me something rich and creamy. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy a bite of lunch if I didn’t first look into finding that fourth notebook.

  Since Lilith’s death wasn’t being treated as a homicide, her house wouldn’t be a crime scene. It wouldn’t be difficult for someone who knew how to pick locks to gain entry to look around for the fourth notebook. Lilith had tried to tell me about it before she died. Surely that meant she wanted me to have it. Even though she’d only “borrowed” the notebooks.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” I said when Sanjay answered the phone.

  “You didn’t wake me.”

  I looked at the time. One p.m. in Italy was only four a.m. in San Francisco. “Up all night practicing a new illusion again? I’m glad, because I really need your help. I need you to drive up the coast to Sea Ranch to—”

  “I’m not in San Francisco.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m in France, staying with Sébastien.”

  “You are?”

  “You heard about what’s going on with him, right?”

  “I feel terrible that his pneumonia is lingering. It’s my fault he has it.”

  “It’s not your fault, Jaya. He wanted to help you.”

  “What kind of person lets a ninety-year-old traipse across France on a treasure hunt?” Sébastien had insisted on helping, but I shouldn’t have let him.

  “Good point. You probably should have stopped him.”

  “Thanks for your support.” I wished Sanjay had been there in person so I could have thrown something at him. “I’m pretty sure he’s in better shape than I am. And he doesn’t look a day over seventy.”

  “Not anymore.”

  I winced. “That bad?”

  “He won’t let anyone help him. He checked out of the hospital and was at home by himself.”

  “What about Jeeves?” I asked.

  “His automaton butler doesn’t actually do everything a real butler would do. Sometimes I wonder about you, Jaya. Anyway, since he won’t accept in-home care, several young magician friends of his have been taking turns visiting him. Tempest was about to leave, so I flew out here to take her place.”

  “I thought you said he wouldn’t let people visit to take care of him.”

  “He won’t. But he’ll impart his vast knowledge to the next generation. If the visit is about us, not him, he loves visitors.”

  The retired stage magician from Nantes, France defied expectations at every turn. He and his partner Christo headlined for a few very successful years before retiring to the French countryside. Sébastien had never enjoyed the spotlight. Building ingenious creations behind the scenes was his passion. He’d replicated many classic magic show devices, such as the famous chess-playing Turk and Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin’s mechanical orange tree, and also created his own. For many years, he and Christo got their wish to live outside of the spotlight. But practicing stage magicians knew he was a fantastic resource, so they tracked him down. Sébastien became a magic consultant. Grudgingly at first, but by the time I’d met him he’d fully embraced the role of mentor.

  “I hadn’t offered to visit because of my Napa schedule of shows,” Sanjay said. “But now that there’s no more theater, I’m pitching in to look after him while he teaches me. Oh, Jaya, you’ve gotta see this. Look at the screen of your phone in two seconds.”

  “Sanjay, this is important. Um, Sanjay?”

  He’d already gone to find whatever it was he wanted to send me. A second later, a photo text message popped up on my phone. It was Sanjay taking a selfie with Jeeves, Sébastien’s wheelchair-bound automaton butler. The wheels allowed the robot Sébastien created with clock-making technology to maneuver through the house. I wasn’t entirely sure how much Jeeves could do on his own, and Sébastien wouldn’t tell me, preferring to keep up the mystique.

  “Sanjay—”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  I heard a woman’s voice in the background. A woman?

  Sanjay came back on the line. “Sorry about that. We’re about to sit down to lunch. What was it you wa
nted?”

  “Who was that?”

  “Tempest is here.”

  “Oh.”

  “You there, Jaya?”

  “Never mind.” He couldn’t help me from France. And should I really have expected him to, even if he was in San Francisco? “You’re busy. Have fun with Sébastien and Tempest. Give my best to Sébastien.”

  “Á bientôt,” Sanjay said without even attempting a French accent.

  I hung up the phone. My brother was right. I took Sanjay for granted. I expected he’d always be there for me, regardless of when I called or what I asked of him.

  I thought about dragging Tamarind into this, then realized how crazy I was being. Like Lilith. I couldn’t expect a librarian, no matter how punk she claimed to be, to break into a house for me.

  I had to get a grip. This was no way to treat friends. I didn’t even have reason to believe the fourth sketchbook was in Lilith’s home. It was entirely possible the person who’d drugged her for information was now in possession of Lazzaro’s sketchbook with the key clue. They could have broken into my office to make sure I didn’t have the information. That made much more sense. I had the background bits of information that needed to be put together.

  I stared at the raven on the screen of my phone for several minutes. Was there anything else I could do? Stefano hadn’t returned my call either. At least his number hadn’t been disconnected. I still didn’t like the situation one bit.

  A missing boyfriend.

  A dead professor.

  And the trusted advisor I’d turned to for help was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter 23

  Even the smooth buttery risotto couldn’t make me forget my troubles.

  “I’ll never understand,” Mahilan said, “how the simplest ingredients make these amazing meals. Before you sat down, JJ, the chef came out and told us how this fettuccine al burro is made with only butter, parmesan, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. But it tastes like so much more. It’s like magic.”