Michelangelo's Ghost

by Gigi Pandian

  “Yes, well.” I cleared my throat. “So nobody has paid you to pretend to be a ghost here at the park?”

  “No, signora. And if I may be so bold, I must say that these questions are very odd for a historian.”

  “Triple Triangle doesn’t like to work with others, so he won’t hesitate to break ties with you. In the most final way possible.” I cringed at my clumsy interrogation. I wasn’t at my best. North hadn’t responded to my message. I was desperate.

  “Triple Triangle? Breaking ties? And people think I’m an odd fellow.” In the shadow of the giant Nymph, Francesco inched away from me.

  I sighed. His reactions seemed genuine. I was the foolish person here, not Francesco.

  “Could you tell me the truth about something?” I asked. “No acting.”

  “If I know the answer.”

  “What do you know about Lazzaro Allegri? Real facts. I’m trying to piece together his travels to India, his friendship with Vicino Orsini, and his connection to Michelangelo. I had hoped Enzo and Brunella Allegri would have more information, but they didn’t. They found some dusty old sketchbooks of Lazzaro’s in their attic, but that’s it.”

  “Noble families,” Francesco said, flicking his hand under his chin. “They only care about their history when it is convenient. Lazzaro was not famous enough to matter. I know only a little more of him than Enzo and Brunella. Lazzaro was the outcast of the family. A friend of Michelangelo, but never famous himself.”

  I gasped. “There’s really a connection between the artists?”

  “This is what people say.”

  “Who says it?”

  “My friend tells me this. And he only says this when he is very drunk.”

  “Is your friend a historian?” I asked hopefully. Even a drunken historian might have good information.

  “His family owns the quarry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mi dispiace.” He raised his thumb and index fingers and twisted both his hands in the air. “I’m sorry it seems I cannot help you. It is the truth that I know more about our local history than anyone. I studied when I prepared for my role. But there is not much to know of Lazzaro Allegri. I have told you all I know. You are on your own, signora.”

  Chapter 34

  When I got back to the suite at the villa, Mahilan was waiting for me with his arms crossed. “I’m not even going to ask this time. But it’s my car rental, so I’d like you to give me the keys.”

  I handed them over. “I thought you two would be packed already.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Ava said. “I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

  “Talk him out of what?”

  “If you’ll recall,” Mahilan said in a clipped voice, crossing his arms, “I arranged for a gourmet chef to give you two a private cooking lesson for lunch today. We leave later today. Before dark. Definitely before dark.”

  “I don’t know if now is the best time—”

  “The cooking class is pre-paid. And I know you, Jaya. You have to eat. The lesson is an hour, and then you eat the food you’ve prepared. Even though you don’t appreciate me and what I’m doing, I’ll look up options while you two cook. You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.”

  This wasn’t about a cooking class. Mahilan still felt betrayed that I hadn’t told him about Lane.

  “It might be a good distraction,” Ava said as we followed a map of the villa to the kitchen where we were to have our class. Ava’s pixie hairstyle reacted elegantly to the unrelenting wind. My own bob didn’t fare as well.

  “I don’t have time for a cooking class. I should be doing something.”

  Ava raised an eyebrow at me and ran her fingers along the smooth stone fence that separated the gravel path from a hilly outgrowth of trees filled with colorful berries. “What exactly should you be doing?”

  “I don’t know.” I picked up a twig and snapped it in my hands. An earthy aroma filled my nostrils. “But something.”

  “One of the most frustrating things about being a mom is when Carey is upset and I can’t help him. All I want to do is something, anything that will make him feel better. But these things run their course. I can be there for him, paying attention to the situation. But in the end, the best thing to do is often to wait it out.”

  “A tantrum isn’t exactly the same thing as a murderous thief stalking us.”

  “Murderous?” She glanced around nervously. “You still think that?”

  “Possibly an accidental murderer, because they didn’t know she was an alcoholic. But it still worries me.”

  “This whole trip is surreal.”

  “I’m sorry Mahilan convinced you to take this trip.”

  “I’m not. Spending time with Mahilan under stressful conditions has let me get to know him better, in ways I never would have known without it.”

  “And you’re still here. That’s a good sign.”

  We turned a corner and found ourselves standing in front of a kitchen garden with a dozen rows of herbs and vegetables, flanked on each side by fruit trees lined up next to a high stone fence. There was just enough space saved for a winding path. It led to a stone building that reminded me of a medieval church. Several gargoyles looked down from the rooftop.

  “I’m surprised I haven’t seen this section of the villa yet,” Ava said. “This would be beautiful to sketch.”

  “I bet they don’t want guests grazing on the fruits and vegetables. The fence is probably here so we can’t easily see in.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ava said, patting the top of the fence with her hand. On her tiptoes she could have seen over it. Me? Not so much.

  I looked around at the colorful surroundings of the boxed-in garden, feeling uneasy in spite of the natural beauty that surrounded me. I felt like I had walked into a landscape painting. Idyllic yet so confining I couldn’t breathe. I was tempted to follow the winding stone path that led out of the secret garden.

  Ava plucked a miniature apple from the tree nearest us. She gave me a close-lipped grin and pressed her index finger to her lips before taking a bite.

  “Don’t,” she said through a mouthful of juicy apple.

  “Bitter?”

  “No. It’s so sweet I’d swear I was eating a caramel apple empanada like my grandmother used to make. I’m talking about you. I can see you making a move to turn around and run off on your own. Don’t do it.”

  “It’s just—”

  “Between the ghost and those stone monstrosities, everything feels sinister here, even when it’s not. It’s affecting your judgment. You can’t do anything right now. You’re stuck with me and our mystery chef. You ready to go inside?”

  Ava was right that there was nothing I could do at that moment. I also hadn’t eaten much for breakfast. Being so hungry meant I wasn’t thinking straight. This distraction would be good for me, but not for the reason Ava thought. I didn’t want to relax. I wanted to give my subconscious time to work out the facts swirling around my mind like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that I hadn’t yet pieced together.

  “Ladies!” A sturdy man with a bald head opened a set of modern French doors set into the medieval building. “I am Chef Raffaele. Please, come inside.” He ushered us through the darkened doorway into a room full of luxury and light. “Welcome to my humble kitchen.”

  It was perhaps the least humble room I’d seen at the lavish villa, and the opposite of its medieval exterior. The chef began his tour, smiling gleefully. We stepped into a modern kitchen equipped with two stainless steel refrigerators, at least a mile of marble countertop, an island with eight burners and a second sink, and in the corner, a wood-burning oven with a fire blazing. The opposite wall was made almost entirely of glass and overlooked a valley with a vineyard. It was as if someone had imagined the anti-Jaya kitchen. This kitchen would have looked down its shiny nose at my scrappy kit
chenette.

  Ava raised an eyebrow. “I can imagine Carey’s reaction.”

  “A budding chef?”

  She shook her head. “I’m imagining the lecture he’d be giving me right about now. He’d hate all of this fuss over food. He takes after me. An expert microwaver. I don’t mean just to heat up food. He got in trouble for taking apart a microwave before. He wanted to see how it worked. He’s into robotics. He loves building mechanical devices. That’s one thing that school of his is great for; they have all the resources you could want. I only wish I got to see him more. If I had family who—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be melancholy. You’re lucky to have your brother.”

  “I’m not sure he feels the same way right now.”

  “He’ll forgive you. It’s because he loves you that he’s so hurt.”

  “The signoras like to cook?” Raffaele asked as he handed us aprons.

  Ava and I looked at each other and began to giggle.

  “No problem,” Raffaele said. “But you like to eat, yes?”

  “Most definitely,” Ava said. “If I didn’t, both the Spanish half and Japanese half of my family would disinherit me.”

  “The spicier the better,” I said.

  “Bene. Then we will all be friends today.”

  As he pulled bowls, pans, and knives from cabinets, Chef Raffaele told us he was from a family of chefs and sommeliers. He’d traveled throughout Italy and twice been to France, but his wife was pressuring him to take the family to New York. As for himself, he had no desire for more than the simplest pleasures in life: food, wine, and his wife. In that order, he joked.

  “I was planning on including fettuccini al burro as one of the dishes today,” he said, scratching his chin, “but now I must think of a more simple menu.”

  “I thought that was an easy recipe.” My mouth watered as I remembered the pasta with a creamy sauce of butter, parmesan, and spices.

  Raffaele clicked his tongue. “Having few ingredients does not make for an ‘easy’ recipe. We will keep our lunch menu simple. Bruschetta antipasto, zucchini flan, pasta al pesce, and a chocolate tart.”

  That was a simple meal? Italy was my kind of place.

  Raffaele’s hands were as large as loaves of bread. If I’d seen him outside of the kitchen, I would have guessed he was a construction worker. But those bulky hands and arms held surprising dexterity. He showed us how to properly hold a knife to chop onions and garlic, and his pieces were minced at least half as small as ours.

  To get started, we chopped onions and zucchini for the flan, which would slow cook in olive oil, cream, and parmesan cheese while we cooked the other dishes.

  Ava studied Raffaele’s onion technique with attentive eyes but unmoving hands, taking it all in. Once she was ready, she began chopping in earnest. Ten seconds later, her pungent onion had been reduced to a professionally diced pile.

  “I thought you said you didn’t cook,” I said.

  “I don’t. I pay attention to details. That’s why I’m so good at business deals. I read body language. It’s surprisingly universal around the world, with a few exceptions. It’s an essential skill for a woman in a man’s world.”

  “That’s why you nearly broke the bones of my hand when we first met.”

  She grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. I was nervous, so my defenses kicked in. I’m used to having to prove myself, showing I’m not weak. It’s amazing the power that lies in a strong handshake.”

  Next up was an even more precise task: mincing garlic. After her onion success, Ava got cocky. The razor-sharp knife slipped from her control and sliced her hand. A swath of bright red formed across her knuckles. She cried out in pain.

  Before I could react, Chef Raffaele had swept Ava to the sink and was running cold water over her hand.

  A second later, a man burst through the glass doors of the kitchen, brandishing a hefty stick above his head.

  Chapter 35

  Ava screamed again. So did everyone else. Me, Raffaele, and the newcomer.

  “Fish,” I said, catching my breath. “What are you—”

  “Ava screamed. Is he hurting you?” He kept the large stick raised in his right hand. It had a curved handle. The stick was a cane.

  The chef jumped back, getting far from Ava. He raised his hands with palms facing upward toward my brother. “I mean the signoras no harm.”

  “We’re fine, Fish,” I said. “Where on earth did you get a cane?”

  “You were spying on us?” Ava asked. She wrapped a kitchen towel around her hand.

  He lowered the cane and eyed the three of us. “With everything that’s going on, I didn’t want to leave you alone. My new friend Frederick loaned me his cane.”

  “The elderly gentleman staying two suites down from us with his wife?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure he needs his cane to walk. Especially on these gravely paths.”

  Mahilan glared at me, then his face softened. “You’re not hurt, Ava?”

  Ava wriggled her fingers at him. “Garlic-chopping incident.”

  “Oh.”

  Raffaele looked at us and scratched his bald head. I didn’t blame him. He’d probably tell the story of the three crazy Americans for years to come. “I think,” he said, “it is time for vino.”

  Raffaele retrieved a first aid kit from one of the numerous cabinets before uncorking a bottle of Sangiovese wine. He disappeared again into the pantry, and when he emerged opera was playing on the overhead speakers. He handed Mahilan an apron and steered him to the sink, then put him to work taking Ava’s place chopping vegetables.

  “You could have joined us for the whole class, signore,” Raffaele said to him. “There was no need to wait outside.”

  Mahilan looked warily at me before decapitating a zucchini. I knew I was the reason he hadn’t wanted to be with us. I should have told him about Lane.

  “I’m sorry, Fish,” I said.

  He answered with a glare and a large gulp of wine.

  “What’s the music?” peacemaker Ava asked.

  “Bomarzo,” Raffaele said proudly. “The story of Vicino Orsini.”

  “His story was made into an opera?” I asked, the gears of my mind spinning at the idea of the historical gems that might be hidden in the musical saga.

  Raffaele held up his index finger and thumb. “Tiny bit fact. Very much fiction. But very good. Is a tragedy. Hunchback Duke Vicino Orsini wishes to obtain immortality, but his advisor tricks him. He is instead given poison. The opera is his memories as his life passes before his eyes, before he dies. Prego!” He sang along with the recording, his booming tenor voice echoing through the stainless steel corners of the kitchen.

  “Your voice.” Mahilan gaped at him. “You’re a true opera singer.”

  “Only two years,” Raffaele said with a humble shrug. “Not enough time for cooking, so I return home.”

  Raffaele poured more wine and continued to sing. By the time the second bottle of Sangiovese red wine was flowing, everyone had relaxed. Before I realized what was happening, Mahilan had put down his knife and began dancing with me and Ava. The last time I’d danced like this was high atop the ramparts of Mont Saint-Michel with Lane Peters.

  I told myself I didn’t have any evidence that ^V^ had hurt Lane just because Lane had known the thief a decade ago before turning his life around. And Lane surely couldn’t be the calling card thief, even in his past. Was it possible the master thief wasn’t one person, but multiple people? Is that why Lane hadn’t wanted to tell me more?

  “JJ?” Fish said. “Are you alright?”

  “Fine. Just light-headed from all the wine I drank before eating.”

  “Is time to eat,” Raffaele said, turning down the music.

  He insisted we enjoy the view from the table on the veranda while he plated the food we’d cooked.

  The first cou
rse he brought out was the bruschetta. The mix of finely chopped garlic, ribbons of basil, plus salt, pepper, and olive oil, had melded to perfection in the hour in which we’d let it sit. It was served on an azure blue platter on top of oven-crisped bread with an added drizzle of olive oil.

  I took my first bite of the crispy flavorful bruschetta as I heard my phone buzz. It was an incoming call, but no number showed. Trying not to get my hopes up, I popped a slice into my mouth and answered the call.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of the cryptic message you left for me?” a posh English voice said. North.

  I nearly choked on my appetizer. I stood up from the table so quickly I nearly knocked over my chair.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Ava and my brother. “Hang on one second,” I said into the phone.

  “JJ?” Mahilan said as soon as he’d swallowed a bite of food. “Who’s on the phone? What’s going on?”

  I pretended not to hear him, as I was already halfway through the kitchen as I hurried to the secluded vegetable garden.

  “Are you quite ready?” North’s voice said. “I haven’t got all day.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure nobody had followed me through the kitchen. Luckily it looked like nobody wanted to abandon their hard-won food to satisfy their curiosity. Yet I didn’t quite feel alone. Had the wine gone to my head?

  “I’m here,” I said. “And I need your help.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice too, my dear.”

  “Skip the pleasantries. The last time we saw each other, I believe you said you hoped you’d never see me again.”

  “At the time, I imagined that if I were to ever see you again, it would be in a court of law, with you testifying against me.”

  “I didn’t. So you owe me. I need—” I broke off and whipped my head around. A movement in my peripheral vision had caught my eye. Someone was peeking over the side of the stone fence. Someone whose face was invisible, shrouded in darkness.

  I rushed to the gate. My heel caught on a stone and I stumbled, but caught myself before I fell. I reached the gate. There was nobody on the outside path. Could I have imagined the figure? My mind must have been playing tricks on me.