by Lyn Hamilton
"I'm afraid not," she said. "He's taking a holiday weekend in the country. He won't be back until Monday. I'm glad for him. I hope it means he's getting over the split with Mum. I'd like him to find a new girlfriend. Hey!" she said, brightening. "You're about the right age. Are you available?"
"No," I said, laughing. "I'm spoken for. But thanks for asking."
"Too bad," she said. "He really needs something or someone to cheer him up. The business with him and my mother was bad enough, and now he's just devastated over what happened to Antonio. They were like brothers. Dad even called Antonio his little brother. He was always trying to help Antonio find work. He kept telling Antonio he'd make it. Antonio had the looks for it, that's for sure."
"He did," I said. "And he was also really kind."
"Yes," she said, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "And funny."
I gave her hand a rather awkward pat.
"When did you see him last?" she said. I told her, omitting several details, of course, about how he'd saved me from the Gypsies, and how we'd shared a bottle of French wine on the Left Bank in Paris, and Antonio had practiced his English. It wasn't the last time I'd seen him, of course, but it was the time I wanted to remember forever. We both snuffled a little.
"I can't figure out how he would have even managed it," she said. "I know the papers said it was a mob hit or something, but Antonio never had anything to do with the mob. Dad says Antonio killed himself. But how would he get himself up there in the first place? My dad says the carabinieri claim he got into the house somehow—there was one window that wasn't properly fastened—attached the rope lower down, went upstairs, and threw it over the metal pole on the peak of the roof from a second-floor window, put the noose around his neck, and then jumped out of the same window. It seems like such a lot of trouble to go to. I don't know ..."
In my mind I heard again the banging of the upstairs shutters that had made me look up. It was possible, I supposed, when I thought about it, but she was right. It was a whole lot of trouble to go to.
"You have to wonder why he'd even know about that farmhouse, let alone use it," I said.
"Dad knows the owner, Gino Mauro."
"He does?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm not sure how, but he does. He talked to him when it happened. Mauro lives in New York but is coming over in the next day or two. Dad is expecting to get together with him at some point."
"Look," I said after a few more minutes of conversation. "I'd better be going. I have work to do. It was really nice to meet you."
"I'll tell Dad you were here," she said. "If he calls. He won't, of course, because he thinks I'm at Mum's, and he doesn't like to call there unless he's sure I'll be the one to answer the phone. But I'll tell him you were here."
I gave her my card and wrote my hotel number on the back. "I know you opened the door for me," I said. "But really, you shouldn't have. Don't answer it unless it's someone you know and you're expecting them." I was suddenly frightened for this sweet young woman and also for her dad. Antonio was involved in the same hoax Mario was, and Antonio was dead. "Promise me you won't open the door," I said. "In fact, I'd be a lot happier if you went to stay with your mother."
"Okay," she said. "I will, as soon as I pull myself together. You'd be perfect for Dad. You're both fusspots."
"Thank you," I said. She actually gave me a hug. I felt like a jerk. I waited outside the door until I heard the bolt click.
I went downstairs and walked along the street, looking for a taxi. As it turned out, I didn't need one. I'd gone only a few yards when a limousine pulled up beside me. I ignored it at first. It couldn't have anything to do with me. But after a cyclist went by and rounded the corner, and I was the only one on the street, a very large man got out and grabbed me. I tried kicking and scratching, but I was no match for him. I was pushed into the backseat of the car. The last thing I saw, through the rear window, was the little girl from the first floor in the doorway, watching, as we pulled away.
The limo came to a stop some time later, maybe twenty minutes, although I wasn't sure. I was pulled rather roughly out of the car and found myself standing in a garage of some sort. There was another limo there, and a scooter, and an air-conditioning unit was blasting away. The man who'd abducted me punched a code, and the door swung open. I was led up a flight of concrete stairs and then pushed down a hall and into a dark room. The door closed behind me, and I was alone.
At least I thought I was alone, until a voice emanated from a very dark corner of the room. "I understand you've been looking for me," a voice said out of the darkness.
"Mr. Lake?" I said, peering in the direction of the voice.
"I don't like extortionists," the voice said. My eyes were adjusting to the light, and I could make out a man in dark glasses and a dark suit sitting in the gloomiest corner of the room.
"Nor do I, Mr. Lake," I said. "It is Mr. Lake, is it not? If you're calling me an extortionist, then you're wrong."
"Then perhaps you will explain why you visited my sister in Ireland. Bribed her with roses, didn't you? White ones? It shows some inventiveness, I'll grant you. What do you want?"
I told him about how I'd met this actor who was impersonating him, who'd asked me to get Bellerophon, about everything that had happened since.
A long silence greeted my account. "Then I'm afraid you've been made the goat, haven't you, Ms. McClintoch?" he said at last. "You've been played for a fool."
"I'd have to agree with you," I said. "Are you telling me you know nothing about any of this?"
"That is exactly what I'm saying," he said. "I would go even further and say your troubles have absolutely nothing to do with me."
"But they just have to, Mr. Lake," I said. "In some fashion or another, they just have to. If you could just look into this for me—"
"Do you have any idea," he said suddenly, "what I would give to be able to stand on a lovely beach with the wind from the sea in my hair, the sand shimmering from the hot sun and the heat, without feeling as if maggots were crawling through every blood vessel in my body?"
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Good day, Ms. McClintoch," he said. "Kindly refrain from invoking my name in this matter. If you do not, I will have to resort to legal action. Indeed, if you so much as mention this meeting, or your discussions with my sister, or anything at all you have learned about either of us, I can assure you, you will very much regret it. You will not have a friend left nor a dime to your name when I'm finished with you. I hope I'm making myself perfectly clear."
He was perfectly clear, all right. Really pleasant fellow, Crawford Lake. When it came right down to it, I preferred the fake one. I could have clawed the real one's eyes out in frustration. I went back to my hotel, packed, and checked out, leaving a note for my dear friend Dottie Beach.
TWELVE
Dottie Beach opened the envelope I'd left for her and frowned. In it I apologized profusely for standing her up, citing the excuse—entirely fictional, given I was standing a few feet from her but hidden from view—that I'd been called away to Geneva to check out a silver collection a client wanted. I told her I'd tried to reach her at the Hassler to let her know but hadn't been able to leave a message for her for some reason. She'd know perfectly well what that reason was, given that I had indeed tried to call her there, only to discover that Dottie wasn't staying where she said she was. More and more about Dot-tie seemed false.
She crumpled the paper with some force and then turned to leave the hotel, pulling her cell phone from her bag. Once outside, she placed a call, at the same time signaling to Angelo, who was parked nearby in a lovely silver Mercedes convertible, top down. In a minute, I was in a taxi following them. Angelo dropped Dottie at the eastern entrance to the Piazza Navona. After taking my time paying the taxi driver, to give Angelo time to pull away, I followed her into the square.
The piazza was packed with tourists and locals, and I almost lost her, but I caught a glimpse of her taking her seat at one of th
e outdoor cafes. I, too, found myself a seat across the wide expanse of the square from her and on a slight angle. I'd bought opera glasses for the occasion, and ordered a Campari and soda, which I was determined to make last as long as necessary.
Angelo joined her shortly. They were seated at a table set for three, and the waiter cleared the third place. Soon they were sipping cocktails interspersed with a kiss or two. I waited for about thirty minutes, with my waiter hovering about hoping I'd order at least another drink. I did, a San Pellegrino, which wasn't what he had in mind, despite the fact the place was charging about three times more than it should for Italian designer water.
Across the piazza, the waiter brought Angelo and Dottie dinner menus, and they proceeded to order. It all looked absolutely legitimate. They'd made a reservation for three, just as they said they would. They were having dinner. What was sinister in that? My only reason for suspecting her was that she turned up once or twice too often in my life, and now that I knew Crawford Lake was actually Mario Romano, I had to look back on every single event in the last several days with a jaundiced eye.
It was difficult not to be suspicious. The carabinieri had turned up three times when I was supposed to have the chimera hydria in my possession. The fact that I didn't on two of those occasions was something known only to Lola and to me. That seemed to be at least three times too many that my path and that of the carabinieri had almost crossed.
The question was, who had known where I was going to be on each of those occasions? Antonio had been able to pick up my trail in Paris very easily, because I'd left a message for him, giving my hotel number in case there was a problem with my cell phone. He'd shown up in Vichy, too, although I had not seen him following me there from Paris. Yves Boucher knew I was going to Vichy, as did Pierre Leclerc. I'd met Dot-tie for the first time that trip in Vichy, and both she and Leclerc had presumably been out to the chateau before I was, the morning Robert Godard took a header into his tomb.
Mario Romano had known where I was staying in Nice and in Volterra. Indeed, he'd recommended the hotels and arranged to have a reservation made for me. Dottie turned up in Nice but not in Volterra. In fact, she'd vanished for a few days, not reappearing until Rome. Leclerc was in Volterra; I saw him, and I saw his car in Nice. It was in Nice that the hydria had miraculously made its way into the trunk of my rental car. Somehow he'd managed to get the chimera hydria out of his trunk before the carabinieri got to it, because it had turned up in my hotel room in Arezzo, and he ended up dead in Cortona.
Both Antonio and Romano knew that I'd moved to Arezzo but hadn't known about my consequent change to Cortona. I'd seen Antonio near my hotel in Arezzo, just before the hydria had turned up in my room.
Romano and Antonio had also known about my early morning visit to the Tanella di Pitagora in the fog, but Romano had said something about leaving Antonio out of it when he told me to go to the Melone di Sodo. Antonio had shown up, though, and hidden in the bushes the same way I had. He obviously knew that something was wrong, or he wouldn't have done that. Was that the reason Antonio had died?
After about an hour of watching Dottie and Angelo nuzzle each other between bites of their dinner and sips of their wine, I decided I might as well give up and go back to my hotel. The thought of spending another evening alone in a small room with a television the size of a toaster was terribly depressing. Several people were hanging about, waiting for a table, however, and the waiter clearly wanted me to leave. I signaled for the bill and started to gather up my belongings.
"This is probably rude of me," a man's voice said, "but you look as if you're leaving. Would you mind if I sat here so I could lay claim to this table?"
I looked up to see an attractive man in dark turtle-neck and slacks and a nice tan suede jacket, wearing lovely Italian leather loafers with socks. I like men to wear socks with their loafers. "Please," I said. "Help yourself. I'm just leaving. I'll pay my bill and be out of your way in a minute or two."
"Thanks," he said, pulling out the chair opposite mine and sitting down. "Rather difficult to get a table in the Piazza Navona this time of the evening. Have we met? You look familiar to me," he said.
Oh right, I thought. The universal come-on. And when it came right down to it, too many strangers had been asking to sit with me since I'd arrived in Italy.
But when I looked at him more carefully, I realized he looked familiar to me, too. It took a second or two before I placed him.
"I don't think we were formally introduced," I said. "But our paths crossed in the carabinieri station in Arezzo."
"Yes," he said after a pause. "That's right. You were with that fellow—what's his name?—Lucca. Massimo Lucca. I hope it wasn't anything serious."
"No, it wasn't." Merely a friend in jail, I thought. "And you? I hope it wasn't serious for you, either."
"No," he said. He wasn't being any more forthcoming on the subject than I was, which was fine with me.
"It was nice to meet you," I said, handing the waiter some money.
"Please," he said. "Permit me to buy you a drink."
"I don't think so," I said. "But thank you."
"How can I persuade you?" he said. "I really dislike drinking alone."
I stood up and was about to decline a second time, when I saw someone come over to Dottie's table across the way. I sat down again. "Well maybe just one," I said. The man at Dottie's table sat down, too. Dottie had phoned someone as she left my hotel. Was that someone there now?
"Terrific," my new companion said, signaling the waiter again.
"A glass of white wine would be lovely," I said. Across the way, Angelo stood up and looked as if he was going to punch the newcomer out. In a split second, the stranger was behind Angelo and had pulled the young man's arm up behind his back in what I've been assured, by people who know these kinds of things, is called a chicken wing hammerlock. Within seconds, Angelo was out in the square. The man came back and sat down.
"So," my new companion said. "Is this your first visit to Rome?"
"No," I said. Dottie dug a handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose. I couldn't see the tears from this distance, but I was sure there were some.
"Of course it isn't," he said. "Your Italian is too good. It was a stupid question, a rather prosaic opening line. You'll no doubt have noticed I'm a little rusty when it comes to meeting attractive women. I'm Nicola Marzolini, by the way."
"That's okay," I said. "I'm a little rusty at opening lines myself. I'm Lara McClintoch. And thanks for the compliment." The stranger at Dottie's table poured himself a glass of wine and chugged it down. The one at mine went on talking.
"You're welcome. I believe then, that the next conversational gambit is yours, signora."
"Okay," I said. "So what was your business in the police station?"
He burst out laughing. "You American women are so direct. I like that. I like you."
"But you didn't answer the question."
"It's no secret," he said, smiling. He had a really lovely smile, not as beautiful as Antonio's perhaps, but still, rather attractive. "I act as a consultant to the police on some matters. Now you will no doubt ask me which matters these might be, so I'll tell you. They ask for my professional expertise in the field of antiquities. I'm a curator for hire, as it were. I assist museums on a contract basis, and I work with the police, as a public-minded citizen. Now, of course, it's your turn. What do you do? Why are you here? And what were you doing in the police station?"
Warning bells were clanging away in my head at the mention of antiquities, but he looked perfectly innocent. "I'm an antique dealer from Toronto. I'm here on a buying trip for my shop."
"Interesting. What kinds of things are you shopping for?"
"Mainly I've been shopping in Tuscany. The Tuscan farmhouse look is very hot right now."
"So I understand. You're not into antiquities, I hope."
"Not if I can avoid it," I said.
"Good," he said. "I will then be able to spare y
ou my lecture on how the antiquities trade is destroying culture."
"Sorry I have to miss that one," I said.
He laughed again. He had a really nice laugh, spontaneous and genuine. He was, when it came right down to it, a very attractive man.
"I don't suppose I could talk you into having dinner with me. I hate eating alone even more than I hate drinking alone. There I go again," he said. "Another horrible line, rife with implied insult. What I'm trying to say is I'd be delighted if you would have dinner with me."
Before answering, I checked out Dottie's table again. They were both still there.
"Thank you," I said. "I'd like to have dinner with you."
"Shall I pick the restaurant?" he said.
"What's wrong with right here?" I said.
"I know a much better place near the Campo dei Fiori. We can walk."