Chaz nodded slowly. “Would he have had access to the department letterhead?”
“Yes. I keep some at my house, and he has a key.” She turned back to her boss. “Of course it was him. Why didn’t I figure that out? Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t you who did it, and I have no intention of pressing charges against your brother. He’ll have enough to contend with here.”
Her throat tightened. Her boss may often have been harsh or tactless, but she gave him credit for not kicking a person who was down. “Thank you,” she said.
He picked his bag back up. “Here comes my cab. I’ll see you at the villa tonight.”
A taxi pulled up, and he climbed in.
Winnie and Chaz watched it pull away, then entered the building and made their way to Sam’s room in silence. She was so frustrated with her brother, she didn’t know what she would say to him.
When she walked in and saw him pale, bruised and punctured with tubes, however, her heart squeezed with empathy. She rushed to him and hugged him gently. “I’m so upset with you,” she said, choking on a sob.
“I know. I love you, sis.” His tone sounded incongruously calm, given the disastrous situation. He patted her back with his tube-free hand. Over her shoulder, he said to Chaz, “We haven’t been introduced, but I’ve seen you around the dig site. Rumor has it you’re sleeping with my sister.”
She pulled away from him. His gall was unbelievable, especially given the trouble he’d caused.
“Yes,” Chaz responded in a matter-of-fact voice. He stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m Charles Frazer. Circumstances could be better, eh?”
Winnie glared at her brother, who looked amused by Chaz’s frank admission. As they shook hands, she said, “You’ve gone too far this time. Why can’t you think about how your actions affect other people? If nothing else, think how much Dad hurt the family when killed himself.”
His smile faded. “You can’t compare this to Dad’s suicide. Maybe I didn’t calculate all of the possible ramifications, but how could I have imagined Dunk would get so desperate and ignore my recommendations about the explosives? If that makes me like Dad, then I’m sorry.”
The nonchalant apology didn’t impress her. He really didn’t get it. “How did you get hold of his journal?” she asked.
“What journal?” He looked confused.
“Dad’s journal. A Dr. Lombardo says it was in a crate of antiquities you sold him. He forwarded it to me.”
His eyes widened. “You’re kidding! I had no idea there was anything personal in that crate. It looked like a jumble of minor finds and some old textbooks. The ones I opened were all written in Italian.”
Her lip curled in disgust. “Didn’t you think the rest of the family might want to go through that crate? How did you get it in the first place? I’m sure it wasn’t in the garage at Mom and Dad’s.”
He shook his head. “No, but I did uncover an old deed there for warehouse space outside of Naples. It turned out the property had a lien against it, but when I paid the back taxes and penalties, the local government lifted it. Naturally, I had to take out a substantial loan to cover twenty years’ worth of fees, but I suspected the investment would pay off. Sure enough, the place is chockfull of invaluable artifacts.”
A wave of dizziness came over her. She grabbed hold of the back of a chair to steady herself.
Chaz took hold of her elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” She plopped down on the chair and looked back at her brother. “So you immediately set about selling artifacts?”
He looked into his lap – the first hint of guilt he had expressed. “Just some minor things, like I said. I needed the money. But there’s much more where that came from. You and Christina will have your share.”
“I don’t want a share! Those artifacts aren’t ours to sell.”
He met her gaze again. “A lot of them have documentation with them, so we can prove that Dad bought at least some legitimately. Admittedly, the stuff I sold was undocumented, but that doesn’t mean he obtained it illegally.”
“If it were a legitimate operation, why would he be so secretive about it?”
Chaz stepped closer to the bed. “There are gray areas when it comes to dealing in antiquities. Even the most reputable museums have pieces in their collections that are disputed. Maybe your father had sensitive details to negotiate.”
She snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it. And the legalities will take years to untangle.”
“If the provenance checks out on the documented artifacts, they can be auctioned off for a fortune,” Chaz said. “The sales will pay for a top-notch attorney for Sam. We can get some of it sourced right away if we pull in favors from colleagues. And if your scruples are higher than other antiquities dealers, great. You can restore pieces to the sites they came from or donate some to public collections to ensure they’re shared with the world rather than hidden away in private mansions.”
Her head spun. She wouldn’t let herself believe there could be a silver lining in this storm cloud, but they did have connections who could figure out what her father had been up to. Looking at Sam, she asked, “Do the police know about Dad’s secret stash?”
He shook his head.
“You’ll be telling them today, as soon as I get a lawyer here to advise you.”
“Domenico’s lawyers are already working with me and Enza.”
“Then we owe him big time.” She stood up. “I have to go. I need some time to work through my thoughts about all of this.”
“Well, don’t worry about me.” Pushing himself up in bed, he winced. “Christina is flying out to help nurse me.”
“What?”
“I called her last night. Eddie’s going to stay home with the kids. She’s coming out on the first flight she can get.”
A little laugh of disbelief slipped out of her. He made it sound like this was just a typical little emergency that the family would handle. And who could tell? Maybe when all was said and done, he would land on his feet. She only knew that she was tired of worrying about him when he didn’t return the favor in any reasonable way. And she sure didn’t want to deal with Christina now. She’d had enough.
As if reading her mind, Chaz gave her arm a tug. “Let’s go. We still have to visit Enza.”
She agreed, glad for the excuse to get out.
Once they were in the hall, he suggested she wait in the lounge while he checked briefly on Enza. “I’ll give her and her father your regards,” he said.
“I’d appreciate that. I don’t think I can take anything else right now.”
“That’s not surprising. Maybe we should go home to Philly as soon as possible. Leave Sam to your sister’s care.”
Going home with him sounded like the best idea ever, but how could she? “How can I desert my family when they need me?”
“Your needs count as much as theirs do. More to me.” He stopped at the entrance to the lounge and kissed her. “Think about it. We’ll do what you decide.”
After he left, she glanced around the lounge and chose a seat in a corner. An Italian newspaper on an end table beside it mocked her. The story must have broken by now, she thought. No doubt her name would be dragged through the mud as the press dug for details.
She picked up the paper and paged through it. To her surprise, she couldn’t find any mention of the explosions. It seemed too much to hope that the story wouldn’t get out. She went through it again more carefully and was just setting it down when Chaz came back.
“What’s in the news?” he asked, standing above her.
“Nothing about the disaster. You’re back fast.”
“I didn’t bother going in the room. Signore Rentino was in the hall, so I spoke to him there.” He sat down next to her. “He’s calling in all favors, and it seems like it’s paying off. He’s a well-connected man.”
“He must be.”
“I didn’t wa
nt to tell him about the antiquities in your father’s warehouse without consulting you, but I think we should. The authorities will confiscate everything when they find out, but I’d wager Rentino can get us access to the documentation so we can work on verifying it. I’ll talk to him, if you trust him – and me – enough.”
She smiled softly. “Of course I do. And at this point, what have I got to lose?”
“Whatever you may lose, you can’t shake me.” He kissed her. “Are you ready to go?”
“More than ready.”
As they left, they ran into yet another acquaintance: Father Giampiero. After exchanging greetings, the priest asked them to come to his church later that afternoon. “I will say a mass for Enza, Samuelo and Duncan.”
Winnie felt a twinge of guilt that she’d ever suspected him of stealing scrolls. It seemed ridiculous now. Given her background, a church in Italy would normally be the last place she’d want to go, but right now she was grateful for support in any form. “That’s kind of you, Father,” she said. “We’ll be there.”
VENTITRÉ
A SMALL GROUP of neighbors and family turned out for the mass. Winnie participated in the prescribed actions and chants, wishing she felt half as much spiritual comfort from it as she’d felt during the drug-laced initiation-rite reenactment. At least Father Giampiero didn’t say anything that outraged her, like the priest on that awful day her father disappeared.
After the service, she and Chaz went up to thank him.
As they turned away, a nun stopped to talk to them. “Such a sad accident over at the villa. Are you two friends of Enza’s?”
“We were involved in the archaeological dig,” Winnie said, reluctant to reveal her relationship to Sam.
The sister crossed herself. “Thank the Lord you were not injured in the collapse.”
Winnie frowned, thinking that if the Lord had intervened with Sam, Dunk and Enza, the outcome could have been better, but before she could form a comment, Chaz jumped in to say, “Your church is lovely. I didn’t catch the name of the saint it’s devoted to.”
“Isidora of Campania. She was martyred trying to save holy scrolls from a fire.”
“Scrolls?” A shiver ran down Winnie’s spine. After all of the turmoil about scrolls at the dig site, the word carried special weight.
“Yes. Her fate is difficult to contemplate, but now she has her heavenly reward.” The woman smiled. “Due to the method of her martyrdom, she is always depicted carrying water. There is a beautiful ancient statue of her in our Lady Chapel. If you have time, you should see it while you are here.”
“Certainly,” Chaz said. “We’ll pay our respects.”
“I’ll show you the way.”
Feeling vaguely uneasy, Winnie followed them into a modestly sized but ornately decorated transept. On one side stood a closed wooden door next to a bench holding several rows of lit and unlit candles and a box for donations. It was funny how in here the heavy air of authority felt so different from the rich, wild atmosphere of the ancient temple, where it seemed like anything could happen – and then it did.
“The Lady Chapel is through the door,” the nun said. “If you’d like to light candles, you can get them here.”
“Grazie.” Chaz said. As the woman left, he turned to Winnie and reached for his wallet. “Let’s get some votives. Consider it more research for my dissertation. Besides, Isidora’s story strikes a chord with me.”
She nodded. “I guess it does with me, too. It’s strange that she died for the sake of scrolls, when we’ve been so focused on finding them ourselves.”
He stuffed a few bills into the slot in the donation box. “I suppose you could say Dunk died for the sake of scrolls, too, but his motives were rather less noble than hers.”
They each took candles. He opened the wooden door and held it, waiting for her to enter first.
She stepped into a spacious chamber, lit only by electric chandeliers and the weak rays of the setting sun filtering through stained glass. A dramatic scene on the windows depicted a woman in flaming robes carrying a stack of burning scrolls out of a fiery building. It reminded Winnie of her flaming-statuette hallucination. She shivered. Another weird coincidence.
Chaz joined her in front of the image. “That looks painful, but at least saving scrolls is a worthy cause.”
“That depends on what’s written on them.” Still staring at the window, she edged toward the front of the chapel.
When she finally pulled her gaze away, she saw the statue the nun had mentioned. The feminine figure wore ancient Roman garb, and soot blackened one side of her, as if the statue itself had been in a fire at some point. Odd. In this portrayal, the saint wasn’t carrying scrolls. In one hand, she grasped the handle of a missing object, and in the other she held a familiar-looking, kettle-like container.
Winnie recognized and gasped. “That’s a situla.”
Chaz stepped up beside her. “Yes. And I suspect she held a sistrum in her other hand.”
“Holy cow.” She took in the statue’s intricate sculpted draping, her stoic classic features, and her strange headpiece featuring a central disc flanked by horns. “It’s Isis.”
He stooped and looked at a plaque screwed to the base. “ ‘Isidora,’ ” he read. “The statue appears to be ancient, but the lettering on the plaque looks medieval.”
She followed his gaze to the inscription. “The name Isidora means ‘gift of Isis.’ This is the missing statue from the temple, isn’t it?”
“It must be.”
Anger built up inside of her. “Then it’s stolen. Father Giampiero will have to return her to the temple, where she belongs.”
Straightening back up, he gave her a sad look and shook his head. “It was probably taken in antiquity – or at the time of Charlemagne, when the coin you spotted was dropped. Either way, the statute of limitations will be up.”
Of course, he was right. Now a sense of grief filled her, and her eyes teared up. In that moment, all the pressures of the last couple of weeks seemed to come to a head and send her reeling. Emotionally exhausted, she dropped to her knees in front of the statue and stared up at it. “Are you the one who was burning in my bathroom?” she asked it.
Silence hung in the air.
After a moment, Chaz squatted beside her and put his arm around her.
She looked at him, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry for getting emotional over a lump of carved marble. It’s just that people should know her identity.”
“Does it really matter what people call her? The name Isis just refers to a Greek interpretation of an Egyptian goddess. In Egyptian, her name was pronounced something like Aset or Ese. And the Italians call her Iside.”
As she contemplated the names, the linguistic gears in her brain started to turn. The fog of pain began to lift. “I wonder if Ishtar comes from the same root. And Easter.”
He nodded. “And Easter sounds like it’s related to Eos, goddess of dawn to the Greeks, and therefore associated with the east.”
“But whom did she originate as?” She stared at the goddess’s face.
“Sounds like a good topic for a book.”
She looked at him in surprise. Book or not, after the last week, she needed to explore the question. The temple complex was imprinted in her being now, shaping her future for both good and bad. Mostly good, she believed. “I like it. Maybe we could collaborate. Or am I crazy?”
He gave her a serious look. “I’m up for any sort of collaboration with you.”
That encompassed a lot of possibilities, and he hadn’t spoken lightly. She smiled. “Good. Let’s start by lighting these candles.”
Finding a pack of matches on the altar – ironic, given Isidora’s story – they lit the votives and set them in front of the statue.
She stepped back with him to look at the figure one last time. The candles burning in the foreground reminded her again of the flaming statuette in her bathroom, but this time, she didn’t feel unnerved. The entity in front
of her didn’t seem alien; she felt familiar.
That was when she realized she’d been seeing signs of the goddess all over: the tyet from her father, the painting of Cleopatra dressed as Isis, the cat roaming the temple, maybe even the Madonna and Child icons, including the patch of mold on the purgatorium.
Then the Sedes Sapientiae connection finally clicked in her brain. She looked at Chaz. “Doesn’t the name Isis mean ‘seat’ or ‘throne’?”
“Hm, yes. She was known as the seat of Osirus.”
“She has been speaking to me for weeks.” A sense of peace and satisfaction filled her. She would have liked to believe the spiritual signs had something to do with her father, since the tyet and the painting were connected to him, but hocus-pocus wasn’t her thing – was it?
“Not literally but figuratively,” she added. “But I’ve been seeing her everywhere.”
“If she were literally speaking to you, I’d suspect you had been drinking purple beer again.”
She smiled at him. “Me, too.”
“Are you ready to go?”
She looked back up at the statue. It didn’t catch fire, move or give any hint of having a message for her. Turning back to him, she said, “Yes.”
They started to walk away, but she paused again. “Wait a minute. Do you think they also have the scrolls from the priest’s lodging here?”
“No.”
His quick answer surprised her. “Why not?”
He pointed to the stained-glass window. “I gather that someone burned them.”
Looking at the woman in flames, she saw his point. “Oh, crap.”
“The Dark Ages happened for a reason. Maybe someday we’ll find an ancient library intact, but it won’t be here.”
As they started toward the door again, she sighed. “No scrolls. So Dunk died in vain.”
He put his arm around her. “Enza seems to believe he died because of the curse. Perhaps Dunk wouldn’t have considered that to be ‘in vain.’ ”
“He definitely went out with pizzazz, as the Italians say.”
The Five-Day Dig Page 23