Telling Lies

by Cathi Stoler

  Helen sat back down at her desk and wrote down “Darien,” followed by the word “wife” and several question marks. “How did Mrs. Hammersmith hold up?”

  As Helen waited for her reply, she knew that Laurel was remembering the day. “She was very controlled. No tears. Ramrod posture.” Laurel paused. “You know, she’s about ten years younger than Hammersmith, and they’d only been married for five years.”

  “Now, that’s interesting.” Helen added “trophy wife” and “money” followed by several question marks to her notes.

  “She looked straight ahead during the entire service. But I do remember thinking that something about her was slightly off.”

  “Off?” questioned Helen.

  “Yeah.” Laurel sighed deeply. Helen could envision her twisting her fingers around the phone cord. “Her hair and makeup were perfect. And she looked very chic, too chic for a memorial service, if you know what I mean. She had on a beautiful black designer suit accessorized with rather large diamond earring studs and an enormous diamond ring. I don’t know. At the time, with all the grief people were feeling, that jewelry seemed inappropriate somehow.”

  “To people with boatloads of money, diamonds are always totally appropriate.” Helen laughed. “Even at a funeral.” She glanced at her notes. “So, he was about sixty when he died and fifty-five when they married. She would have been around forty-five then. Not your typical, young thing trophy wife. Any children?”

  “None on her side. He had sons from a previous marriage. His first wife died years ago, leaving him with two boys, Gary and David. They’re grown men now, in their late thirties, and both worked in his brokerage firm. They seemed very attentive to their stepmother and were constantly by her side.”

  “I’m impressed.” Helen twirled her pen in her hand. “You remember all this. You did your research on Hammersmith.”

  “I was desperate to help Monica and looked into everything I could. Of course, none of it really made a difference.”

  Helen could feel her friend’s frustration seeping over the line from Italy.

  “Maybe we can change that now. How long are you planning to be in Italy?”

  “We were scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow, but I’m going to stay a while longer. I called John earlier and asked him for a little more time off from work. When I explained the situation, he agreed. albeit with the provisos that I take care of myself and do everything Aaron suggests. Sounds as though he were speaking for my dad, doesn’t it?”

  Helen recalled Laurel’s boss, the dapper and wry John Dimitri, publisher of Women Now magazine, who was also her father’s best friend. She had no doubt that John’s concern for Laurel was sincere.

  Laurel broke into Helen’s thoughts. “I think it’s important for me to be here. Jenna’s boyfriend Tony offered to introduce me to his father, Signore Walter Mariotti. Tony told me that Signore Mariotti is very involved in the art world in Florence and knows everyone connected to it. He collects Old Masters and has a gallery in the family’s villa in Fiesole just outside the city. I thought if I described Jeff …” Laurel’s voice trailed off at the mention of his name. “I mean the man I saw, Signore Mariotti might recognize him.”

  “If it was Jeff, he could have changed his profession,” ventured Helen.

  “It’s possible, but he was in the Uffizi, so I think it’s worth checking into.”

  “Will Aaron be staying in Italy with you?” Helen’s next question was met with stony silence, then mild annoyance.

  “We haven’t discussed that yet.” Helen rolled her eyes in exasperation. The young woman paused for so long before she continued that Helen had the weird sensation that Laurel could picture the face she was making all the way from Italy. Finally she continued in a more even tone, “Maybe Aaron should come back to New York and look into things from there. I know he’s just trying to watch out for me, but sometimes …”

  Helen interrupted before she could finish her thought and start ranting about Aaron again. “I think that’s smart. He’ll have an easier time than I would getting access to any information the Feds have on the case.” And that will give you a legitimate reason to ask him to leave, rather than telling him you want to watch out for yourself.

  Laurel jumped on Helen’s use of the word “I.” “So you’ll help me with this?”

  Helen glanced at her notes, smiled, and underlined several of the words she’d jotted down. “I would enjoy a drive to Darien. I hear it’s lovely in Connecticut this time of year. And while I’m there, I can drop in on Mrs. Hammersmith and see if she knows anything that she has neglected to share so far.”

  “Okay. Good.” Laurel sounded delighted that Helen would be on the case and cover her back. “I’ll concentrate on Signore Mariotti and see where that leads.”

  The young woman hesitated. “I don’t think that Aaron will be too upset to be leaving me here, not after how I behaved this morning.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” Helen knew just how smitten the detective was.

  “Well, maybe I’d better go and be nice to him for a little while if I expect him to cooperate.”

  “Good idea.” Helen smiled as she thought about how Laurel was going to elicit this cooperation. “But, be careful. You could really ruffle a lot of feathers by asking questions. And, if it is Jeff Sargasso, he won’t thank you for outing him.”

  “I can take care of myself. If that bastard faked his own death, he deserves to suffer.”

  Chapter Eight

  Villa Franca

  Fiesole, Italy

  Cypress trees stood as silent sentinels guarding the edge of the road that serpentined its way up to the small town of Fiesole. The car swayed from side to side as Tony navigated the hairpin curves and steep hills. Laurel felt as though she were on a roller coaster. She leaned back against the car’s padded headrest and enjoyed the cool breeze that slipped through the open window and tickled her face. Staring down the hillside through breaks in the trees, she was captivated by glimpses of the panoramic view of Florence, growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

  She, Jenna, and Tony were traveling to his family’s summer home, Villa Franca, in this beautiful town high above the city. They’d taken the rapid train from the Stazione Ferroviaria Santa Lucia in Venice late this morning, passing along the outskirts of the small towns and villages that made Tuscany one of Italy’s most beautiful regions. While the cities of Padua, Bologna, Ferrara, and Lucca whizzed by in a whirl of olive groves, grapevines, and formal gardens, Jenna and Tony chatted quietly about nothing in particular and Laurel feasted her eyes on the gorgeous countryside. Fattoriae di campagna, farmhouses turned into holiday villas, dotted the landscape and sunflowers filled the fields, lazily turning their faces upward to follow the sun as it made its way from east to west. It was quite the reverse of the journey from Florence to Venice that she and Aaron had made just a few days ago. Then she had been shaken and agitated by her encounter in the Uffizi and noticed nothing but the troubled expression in Aaron’s eyes as they discussed Jeff Sargasso over and over again.

  Laurel couldn’t get Aaron out of her mind. She looked at her watch and shifted in her seat, turning her head to let the breeze play with her long, dark hair. Aaron had departed from Marco Polo Airport on an early morning Alitalia flight to New York. He was most likely home by now. In spite of all their bickering and differences of opinion, she missed him already. Sighing out loud, she shifted again as she noticed the sign for the turnoff to the Piazza Mino da Fiesole, the town’s picturesque main square. Thoughts of Aaron would have to wait. She had more immediate things to contemplate than where the relationship was going with her bossy and very sexy detective.

  “I forgive you. And so does Helen,” she’d said as she’d marched into their room after her telephone call to New York. “We know you can’t help being a take-control jerk, but we came up with a workable plan.” She’d ignored the raised eyebrows and skeptical smile that greeted her words.

  “W
as that supposed to be a compliment?” he asked. “Does that mean we’re through fighting?”

  Laurel had been smart enough to realize that continuing to voice their disparate points of view would just take them round and round without getting them anywhere. “Yes.” She’d slipped into his arms and kissed him lightly. “Helen’s agreed to help investigate Jeff Sargasso’s disappearance and his dealings with Alfred Hammersmith.” She’d looked into his eyes. “But we were both hoping that you’d work on getting additional information from the Feds.”

  Aaron pulled back slightly without breaking their embrace. “And, I suppose the two of you will tell me everything you discover? Not keep it between ‘the girls’ and leave the ‘take control jerk’ out of the picture?”

  “We will. I promise. If we’re right, there’s too much at stake.”

  Laurel had sensed that he wanted to believe her but couldn’t give himself over entirely to trust what she was telling him. In a way, she understood his hesitancy. When they’d met, her reluctance to let him in had almost proven fatal.

  Finally, he’d let go of her and held up his hands in defeat. “Okay, you win. I’ll check the NYPD records and see what we have on the guy.” Before she could ask about the FBI, he’d continued. “I’ll call a friend at the Bureau and see if I can shake loose some information.”

  She’d leaned over and kissed him again, this time with a passion he couldn’t ignore. “Jeez, is the word ‘sucker’ permanently tattooed on my forehead?” Shaking his head, he’d taken her hand and led her to the perfectly made-up bed.

  Laurel brought herself back to the present as Tony drove through the Piazza Mino, then turned off on still another winding road flanked by lush gardens and overhanging trees. At the end of a long drive rimmed by more stately Cyprus trees stood Villa Franca, a rambling, 300-year-old stone farmhouse. As Tony pulled up to the entrance, the massive wooden doors opened, and Signore and Signora Mariotti flew down the stairs. With cries of “Mamma! Papa!” Tony jumped out of the car and embraced his parents affectionately. Lifting her bags from the trunk, Laurel watched the family’s reunion and recalled how surprised she always was by Italian parents and their adult children. Unlike most of their American counterparts, they really seemed to like each other. Looking over at the ever cool and collected Jenna, she shrugged her shoulders and winked as if to say, “Are you ready for this?”

  Seeing the two women standing there waiting, Tony bounded over, took each one by the arm, and walked them back toward his parents. He was beaming. “Mamma, Papa, I’d like to present to you my friends, Jenna Jones and Laurel Imperiole.” After a round of piaceri, hand shaking, and double cheek kissing—they were practically family after all—Signore Mariotti led the way into the house. As they made their way up the stone staircase, Jenna, who wasn’t big on meeting anyone’s parents, leaned in toward Laurel and whispered, “You’re really going to owe me big time for this.”

  * * *

  Even Jenna had to admit that the Mariottis couldn’t have been warmer or more welcoming. Both in their late fifties, they made a handsome couple. With his silver hair and steel blue eyes, Signore Mariotti demanded attention. Looking at Signora Mariotti, Laurel could see where Tony’s extraordinary looks came from. A tall blond woman dressed in a chic designer outfit, the Signora might have been a model herself at one time.

  Signora Mariotti, or Franca, as she asked to be called, led Jenna and Laurel into the villa. As they walked through the rooms, Laurel found it hard to take it all in at once. Constructed of thick stone walls and wood beamed ceilings, the villa was filled with a perfect mix of contemporary pieces and Tuscan antiques. The effect was stunning.

  Of course, there was also the artwork, a collection any museum would covet. Tony had told them that most of it was displayed in a separate gallery off the large and airy living room. But several Tiepolos, a DaVinci and a small Botticelli Madonna were scattered along the hallways throughout the house.

  Laurel was as captivated by the small Madonna as she was by Botticelli’s work at the Uffizi. She had always loved the artist and the fact that he took his name from his elder brother, Giovanni, a pawnbroker, who was called Il Botticello, the little barrel. First apprenticed as a goldsmith, then later a pupil of the painter Fra Filippo Lippi, he spent his entire life in Florence, except for one memorable visit to Rome to paint the incredible wall frescoes in the Sistine Chapel.

  Her fascination with the city’s hometown artist was what had brought Laurel to the museum and ultimately to the Mariottis and their lovely villa.

  Looking around at the abundance of magnificent art it held, Laurel’s hopes soared. Surely the man who had collected it would be able to help her or would know someone who could.

  They climbed a graceful, curving staircase to the second floor and Franca showed her to the bedroom that was to be hers. Laurel took one look at the beautifully carved angel motif on the headboard of the massive, oak bed that dominated the space and felt she might actually sleep well tonight.

  After Tony, Jenna, and Laurel had unpacked and settled in, they met the Mariottis on the patio for a late lunch. Just looking at the food laid out on the wide plank farm table made Laurel’s mouth water. It was a delicious al fresco meal of smoked cinghiale, the local version of prosciutto, accompanied by chunks of fresh pecorino cheese, sun-ripened tomatoes, figs, and a fatto di casa, homemade foccacia bread. The meal was washed down with several bottles of Brunello, one of the region’s most celebrated wines. It was made even more palatable by the view of the Duomo’s golden dome below, twinkling in the late afternoon sun.

  When the last drop of wine had been consumed, Signore Mariotti rose from the table and turned to Laurel. “Will you walk with me for a while? There is a special place I would like to show you,” he said in his almost perfect, Italian-accented English. He nodded at his wife, Tony, and Jenna. “Everyone, please excuse us.”

  They crossed the patio and walked along a gravel path toward a grove of olive trees that bordered the property to the south, along the ridge on which the villa was located. As they moved past rows and rows of the silver-leafed trees, Laurel kept glancing at Signore Mariotti. Her mind was racing full throttle once again, with questions spinning around and around. Yet instinctively, she knew he would speak to her in his own time and his own way. After a few minutes, they arrived in front of a rusted iron gate, which Signore Mariotti opened to usher her through. They were on the crest of a ridge overlooking the ruins of a large amphitheater built into the hillside.

  “I wanted you to see this.” He swept his hand in front of him to encompass the ancient arena below.

  Laurel surveyed the ruins. “It’s magnificent.” She gazed at the ancient stone and marble. “It’s very old, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Signore Mariotti lifted his hands and gestured toward the ruins. “It is the Teatro Romano, built in the first century BC and used by the Romans. I come here often to think.” He turned and faced Laurel. “It’s a good place for that, don’t you agree?”

  Laurel gazed at this ancient spot and immediately understood its appeal. She could feel the whispers of the wisdom of the ages that had endured for all this time and surrounded it still. She touched his arm. “You’re right. It is a perfect place to think and to talk, very calming and serene.”

  They walked down the worn steps and sat on a cool stone bench in the last row of the theater. Signore Mariotti was ready to hear her story now.

  “So, Antonio has told me what you need. Now, you tell me what you would like me to do.”

  Laurel took a deep breath and began to speak. She explained what had happened over the last few days and her suspicion that Jeff Sargasso was alive and working in the art world in Florence. She told him about her meeting with Dottore Cappodello and her disagreement with Aaron. Signore Mariotti listened thoughtfully, nodding his head from time to time.

  “Tony, Antonio, told me that you had strong ties to the Florentine art scene, and, well, I thought …”

  “The man
you describe is not familiar to me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But that is not to say that he does not exist. I believe the least we can do is make some inquiries.”

  A spark of hope lit up Laurel’s face. Slowly, Signore Mariotti continued, “I will call my most trusted art dealer in the city, Caterina Toscana. She is also a close friend. Caterina truly knows everyone who is connected to the artists, the patrons, and many, many other dealers. Also, she is extremely discreet. Perhaps she will recognize the man from your description.”

  “Thank you. I’m very grateful.” Relief flooded through her. Then, remembering how Helen had counseled her to be extremely careful, Laurel’s voice filled with concern. “There’s one more thing. It could be dangerous for your friend. If Jeff Sargasso thinks someone is looking for him, who knows what he might do?”

  A smile played across Signore Mariotti’s lips. “I wouldn’t worry about Caterina. In her business she deals with vipers every day. When they show their fangs and prepare to strike, Caterina knows how to strike back.”