by Lyn Hamilton
"No. I came to talk to you about Crawford Lake," I said.
He looked mildly amused. "Why would you want to do that?"
"That's a very good question, and one for which frankly, I don't have a good answer, other than that I feel I've been duped by the man, and I wanted to talk to someone who knew him."
"I see. Sit down, please," he said. "We'll have that drink we missed the last time. Campari and soda, perhaps? It's late in the afternoon. I think I'll have one, if you will."
"Sure," I said. He poured the drinks, taking ice from a small refrigerator under the counter, and the soda and Campari from a credenza.
"Now," he said. "Crawford Lake. What do you want to know?"
"Just your involvement with him."
"He put me out of business, or rather he put the bank I worked for out of the Internet banking business for awhile, and me out of a job."
"So, did you ever meet him in person?"
"No. I think that was one of the most offensive parts of it. This person whose face I couldn't even picture made a mess of my life."
"Do you hate him?"
"I did for awhile. I got over it. I have a rather nice life now, as perhaps you can see. I love art and antiquities, and I have this wonderful place, as you put it. I have good people working for me now, so I don't even have to work that hard. I just get to come in here whenever I want and enjoy myself."
"By good people, you mean someone like Nicola Marzolini," I said. "I couldn't help noticing his name on the door."
"Yes, Nicola is one of the people I employ from time to time. Do you know him?"
I nodded.
"He's a consultant, not full time, but very good. He knows his stuff, and he pays attention to detail. Pleasant fellow as well, although if you've met him, you probably know he has a thing about neatness. He has a fit when one of the others doesn't keep the work area absolutely tidy. He's always making sure the books on the shelf here line up perfectly. As you can see," he said waving his hand toward the desk in the room behind, "I'm of the school that believes that a tidy desk is the sign of a diseased mind. I haven't seen the top of my desk in months. But to get to your point, I probably should thank Crawford Lake for what happened, although I don't think I've reached that stage quite yet. Does that answer your question?"
"It does," I said. I just really didn't know whether to believe him or not. "Would Hank Mariani feel the same way you do? That was Hank Mariani, was it not? The Texas oilman who outbid Crawford Lake for the Etruscan bronze Aplu?"
"How ever would you know that?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I saw his picture in the paper. Lake was making a hostile bid for Mariani's company, if I remember correctly. Has he reached the same Zen state you have on the subject of Lake?"
"He isn't too relaxed about it, no. To be fair, though, it was only a few days ago that he was asked to clear out of his large corner office, when Lake won the battle. It will take awhile for him to recover, I'm sure."
"Presumably he had shares to sell and doesn't have to worry," I said. "Financially, I mean."
"Oh, I think it was more than just his pride that was hurt," Rosati said. "He spends rather lavishly, I'm afraid, and he did some rather stupid things to try to stop Lake from getting the company. As a result, he wants me to buy the Aplu, but like all museums or galleries, I essentially have no budget for doing so. I'm sure he'll land on his feet, however, and I shouldn't be gossiping about him like this. Another Campari?" he asked.
"No, I better not. But thank you, both for the drink and your candor."
"I hope whatever Crawford Lake has done to you is not too serious. Whatever it is, my advice to you is just to get on with your life. There are always other opportunities."
"Thanks again," I said.
"You're welcome. Let me walk you to the door. I'm leaving, too. I'll show you a few of my favorite things as we go."
"Good-bye, signora," the security guard said. "Have a good holiday tomorrow, signore," he said to Rosati.
"I'm spending a day in the country," Rosati said as he shook my hand. "An annual get-together with friends. I'm rather looking forward to it."
Outside the museum, I tried to call Salvatore to get him to look into Nicola Marzolini, but there was no answer. I went back to the hotel.
"Signora McClintoch," the bell captain called to me. "A package was delivered for you. I have taken the liberty of having it sent up to your room."
"Thanks so much," I said. What package? I thought.
A reasonably large box well wrapped in brown kraft paper sat on the bureau in my room. I regarded it with deep suspicion. The sender's name and address were quite clear, however: Salvatore Vitali at his address in Cortona.
I opened the box. It contained a bubble-wrapped package protected by a rather large quantity of foam chips. Gathering that it must be something fragile, I unwrapped it carefully, and found myself staring, once again, at the chimera hydria.
At that very moment, the phone rang.
"Lara!" Salvatore exclaimed. "I'm so glad to have reached you. I have such good news. I can barely speak, I am so happy. We wanted to phone you right away."
I said nothing, just stared at the hydria.
"Are you there?" he said. "Lara?"
"Yes, I'm here," I said through clenched teeth. "What is your news?"
"My Lola is free!" he said. "She is right here with me."
"That's wonderful," I said. "Congratulations. How did you manage that?"
"But I did nothing," he said. "As much as I would like to claim credit, and so to win my Lola's heart, I cannot do so. The evidence, you see, has disappeared. Thieves broke into the police station three days ago and stole several articles, including the chimera hydria. Massimo Lucca, the policeman in charge of the investigation, called this morning. No vase, no case. Do you understand? Lucca said he could not hold Lola any longer under the circumstances. Isn't that wonderful news?"
"Wonderful," I said.
"We must celebrate before you return to America," he said. "A good meal at my favorite restaurant, a bottle or two of their best Barbaresco. Lola must eat. I'm going to make her some pasta right away."
"And the parcel you sent me?" I said.
"What parcel?" he said.
"You didn't send me a parcel?"
"No," he replied. "Now, can you come this evening to celebrate with us?"
"I don't think so," I said. "There are a couple of things I still have to take care of here." That was an understatement. His excitement sounded so genuine, I didn't know what to think.
"Then tomorrow," he said. "Promise you'll come."
I picked up the hydria carefully and just held it for a few minutes, feeling its heft, the balance, the smooth surface. I placed it on top of the bureau in my hotel room and just looked at it for a long, long time.
Then I picked up my list of possible suspects. Pick one, I told myself. They can't all be guilty. I made three columns, and tried to assign the people on the list to at least one of them.
The first group I called the charade, those people whom I knew or at least suspected to be part of the false Lake scenario: Romano, first and foremost, as the Lake impersonator; Antonio; Boucher; Palladini; Anna Karagiannis or Anna the maid; Eugenia Ponte, whose agency both Antonio and Romano had come from; and Dottie, because she knew Eugenia, or at least Eugenia's agency.
The second list I called Lake's enemies: Rosati, despite what he said; Gino Mauro; Gianni Veri; and perhaps most of all, Brandy Lake; and Anna again, because of Brandy's fiance and Anna's nephew, Taso; and Maire, Brandy's helper. Because Dottie could well have known Mauro—I was almost certain he was the mystery man in the Piazza Navona—she made the list, too. Leclerc, assuming Ryan's story about Leclerc getting fired by Mondragon after trying to deal direct with Lake was true, I also placed in that column.
The third list I called the hydria, those who could be associated in any way with the object, either through their work or simply because they had seen it: Dottie; Leclerc, despite the fact he
was no longer with us; Godard, of course; Antonio and Romano, both of whom had known I had it; and Nicola Marzolini and Rosati, both on the list because of their occupations. I also put Alfred Mondragon on the list for that reason, and because he knew Lake.
I eliminated dead people, and others like Maire, who just seemed unlikely suspects. There was only one person on all three lists: Dottie Beach. I looked back at the hydria. Three groups, like the three heads of the chimera. All by itself, the hydria had changed everything.
FIFTEEN
ORVIETO
Dottie Beach stood outside the Hassler, her arm through that of her mystery man, who I had decided, based on nothing more than his performance in the Piazza Navona, was Gino the Supremo, Gino Mauro. I'd thought Dottie was lying about staying at the Hassler, but she hadn't been. She had neglected to mention that she was staying in a room reserved in Gino Mauro's name, that's all. A few minutes after they came outside, a Jaguar pulled up beside them, Eugenia Ponte at the wheel and Vittorio Palladini in the passenger seat. Gino and Dottie got in, and they took off. I pulled in behind them.
Eugenia took the Autostrada del Sole at a leisurely pace before turning off at the exit for Orvieto. Rather than taking the road to the town, she skirted the hill on which Orvieto is perched, crossed the valley, and started up the slope on the other side. Cypress trees, caught in the late afternoon sun, cast long, shadowy fingers across the fields. The road climbed progressively higher through a series of switchbacks, with several side roads leading off the main one, and I was afraid I might lose them, but about five miles out of town, she turned off the road and through large, wrought-iron gates.
I waited a few minutes, then drove through the gates and up a long driveway, finding myself at a rather attractive stone home set in a grove of cypress trees and handsomely landscaped. There was a large parking area, where the Jaguar, now empty, sat, along with a Mercedes or two, a Jetta, a couple of Opels, a rented Fiat, and a red Lamborghini with a bright yellow umbrella visible through the back window, the sight of which took me back to Nice and Volterra.
I took the box out of the trunk of my car and walked up to the main door. I rang, then knocked, but there was no answer. I walked around the house and up a slight slope and found myself in a lovely back garden. To one side, at the top of a slight incline, there was a swimming pool, and across the valley, Orvieto sat on its lofty plateau, sunlight shimmering on the cathedral dome. There was absolutely no one there, despite all the cars in the parking area. Dottie and Gino, Eugenia and Vittorio had vanished into thin air.
I knocked on a back door. There was no answer there, either, but a long buffet table had been set up in the loggia. It was covered with a linen tablecloth; plates, napkins, and cutlery were artfully laid out at one end; there was a lovely flower arrangement in the middle; and several candles, unlit.
I peered in the windows: again, no sign of life. I scanned the back garden and saw a piece of red cloth tied to the branch of a tree at the far end of the property. It marked the start of a path into the woods that angled down at first, then back up through the trees. At the end of it was a long, stone-lined passageway, open to the air, cut into the side of a hill, which ended in a wooden door, propped open, which appeared to lead straight into the hill.
It was rather dark inside, and there was an acrid smell like rotting leaves and mold. I was at the top of a very old and broken stone staircase that led into the gloom. There was a dim glow at the bottom. I picked my way slowly and carefully down the steps, trying not to dislodge any pieces of stone that would reveal my presence. I reached the last step, took a deep breath, and stepped into the light.
I don't know what they saw in me, other than a woman in black loafers and pants and a white shirt, holding a large cardboard box. A nuisance that had to be disposed of? A teacher who'd found them doing something naughty in the schoolyard? Or even an avenging angel of some kind?
I know what I saw: twelve people, all of whom I recognized, some wary, some embarrassed and frightened, still others merely curious. But I saw something else, too. Perhaps because I was so frightened, the urge to flee almost unbearable, I had a sense of being able to penetrate the civilized veneer to the monster that lay beneath. It was a writhing mass of evil, created partly by a carelessness caused by oblivion to consequences and partly through calculated malice.
"I believe this is yours," I said, extending my arms with the box in them toward the group.
Dottie Beach burst into tears. "I didn't kill Robert Godard," she sobbed. "No matter what you've been told."
As she spoke, Nicola Marzolini stepped forward, took the box, lifted its precious contents, and set the hydria on a stone bench. We all stared at it for a moment. It looked perfectly at home, which it should have, given that most of these ceramics were made for the dead. We were in an Etruscan tomb, something I could thank Robert Godard for knowing.
I was in the entranceway to a chamber about twenty feet long and almost as wide, with a gabled roof painted red. Stone benches, on which pillows had been heaped, lined all four walls, breaking only at the entranceway where I stood, and at another door, to my right, that led to some darkness beyond. The wall paintings were almost gone, faded to the point where only a few details could be made out, pale blue and yellow swallows flitting across one wall, the shadow of a feast of some kind on another. There was a false door painted into the far wall, and over the door, faint but still distinguishable, was a chimera, drawn and painted by some ancient hand.
A table had been set up in front of the false door, covered in a cloth that matched the ceiling, and on it was set up a bar. Wine chilled in a large bucket of ice, a blue glass bottle of grappa stood open, there were bowls of olives and a cheese platter, and several candles on the table and scattered about the room provided the light, casting large shadows against the walls.
"There is an explanation for this," Cesar Rosati said.
"One I'm sure we'd all like to hear," a voice behind me said. My heart leapt into my mouth. If I'd thought I could stay in the doorway and make a fast exit if necessary, I'd obviously been wrong.
"What are you doing here?" a tall woman with long, gray hair, pulled loosely back into a chignon, said. She looked rather more patrician than she had when I first saw her, dressed as she had been in a maid's outfit.
I looked over my shoulder. A tall man dressed in a white suit, white hat, and dark sunglasses stood in the doorway. His tie was not the right width to be fashionable, nor were his lapels, but I suppose if you don't get out much, there isn't much point in buying a new suit every season.
"Hello, Mr. Lake," I said. What I didn't know was whether his arrival improved my odds, which had been twelve to one before he got there, or made them worse.
"Ms. McClintoch, Anna," he said nodding politely in our direction. "And you, Mondragon." Alfred Mon-dragon nodded curtly.
"Lake!" Gino said. "Are you serious? Is this really Crawford Lake?"
"How did you find us?" Hank demanded.
"I followed Ms. McClintoch. Just about everyone here was following somebody, so I thought I'd join in," he said dryly.
"This is by invitation only," Hank said.
"I've been musing what the invitation, had I received one, would say," Lake said. "Buffet supper at six. Cocktails at four in the tomb?"
"If this place is not to your liking, then you know what you can do," Hank said.
"On the contrary, this is exactly my kind of place," he said, carefully replacing his glasses with a pair of a lighter tint. "Now, I believe Ms. McClintoch was about to get an explanation. Perhaps we could start off with some introductions. I'd prefer not to shake hands, if you don't mind. I'm Crawford Lake, and this is Ms. Lara McClintoch. And you are?"
Anna Karagiannis, the aunt of Brandy Lake's dead fiance, declined to introduce herself, but the rest of them did. Besides Anna; Dottie and Gino; Eugenia and Vittorio; there was Cesar Rosati, the man I'd stood up for dinner; Mario Romano, the fake Lake; the art dealer Mondragon; the journalist G
ianni Veri; Hank Mariani, the tiny cowboy; Nicola Marzolini, my date a few evenings back; and the one person I hadn't been expecting, Massimo Lucca, the policeman from the carabinieri station in Arezzo. Hank Mariani was the last to introduce himself. He came up to me with his hand out.
"How do you do," he said. "I'm Pupluna."
"Pupluna?" Lake snorted.
"We call this group the Societa della Chimera," Mario Romano said defensively. "We meet every year around this time. We call it our annual meeting, and we have it here because, as I'm sure you know, the Etruscan kings met in this area—at a place they called Velzna—to discuss matters of state, trade, defense, those kinds of things. Anna has this wonderful home here, complete with Etruscan tomb, so she has graciously offered to be our host every year.
"We limit our membership to thirteen, after the Etruscan city states, and we all take the name of one of those cities. That's what Harold here meant when he said he was Pupluna. I'm Velc, Anna is Velzna, Dottie here is Clevsi, Cesar, Rusellae, and so on." He paused for a moment. "It sounds rather foolish when you tell a stranger, I'm afraid." He suddenly seemed at a loss for words.