The Last Enemy

by Grace Brophy

  She was now the darling of the Italian art world and had been toasted with champagne at numerous receptions, one a few months ago in Perugia, at the Galleria Nazionale, where it was rumored she was to be its next director. Cenni’s grandmother— a devoted gossip—kept up on these things. His mother and grandmother, who were both lifelong patrons of the museum, had in one of their rare moments of unanimity dragged him along to the reception, insisting that they had to have a male escort. His mother had gone because she always did if the event were likely to make the society pages. And besides, as she told her son, Giovanni Baglione had written Orazio Gentileschi’s biography in 1642. A Baglioni before her marriage, Cenni’s mother always claimed kinship with any other Baglioni so long as he was notable. Alex knew it would serve no purpose to point out the difference in spelling, so he didn’t.

  His grandmother had gone for other reasons. She was a champion of feminist causes and a great admirer of Gentileschi’s painting, Judith Slaying Holofernes, which was on temporary display at the Galleria. But he knew it was also for the champagne. Her doctor had restricted her to one bottle a week. “A mere thimbleful for a woman with my thirst for the bubbly,” his grandmother had said.

  Cenni and his grandmother had skipped the reception line. He had no desire to see or be seen and she preferred to enjoy the parade of the beau monde from a comfortable seat, her shoes kicked discreetly out of sight. The Galleria Nazionale, although it lacked the cachet of the Borghese in Rome or the Uffizi in Florence, was his favorite museum. Despite its impressive collection of Sienese and Umbrian Old Masters, it still had the charm and pace of a provincial museum. Visitors could wander through its many rooms, in any order they wished, or revisit the same painting time and again without a guard urging them ever onward. And Cenni had yet to encounter one of those seemingly ubiquitous art tours permitted at the Uffizi, where an overloud and rushed guide focused on a single painting, or a detail of a painting, in a room filled with art treasures:

  “This room, as you can see, is dominated by Caravaggio. Please note the painting on your right, The Adolescent Bacchus. Excuse me, sir, can you step aside so my group can view the painting. It’s generally believed that the young Sicilian who posed for this highly sensual work was Caravaggio’s live-in lover. If you will kindly focus your attention on the bottom right of the painting you can see the subject’s dirty fingernails and the wormeaten rotten fruit. This is an excellent example of the naturalism favored by the artist. Now, in the next room, we will focus on Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait as a Young Man. But if any of you wish to look at the other paintings in this room, you may take a minute to do so. There’s an interesting Venus by Carracci on the opposite wall, but please don’t tarry. Our appointment to visit Michelangelo’s David at the Accademia is in ten minutes.”

  And the group would sweep out behind their guide, knocking down the old and infirm in their hurry not to miss the next view of dirty fingernails.

  At Artemisia Casati’s reception four months ago, Cenni had tarried in front of the Uffizi Judith, one of the more violent interpretations of the biblical Judith decapitating the Assyrian general Holofernes. Too much blood, he’d thought. He was wondering what Batori would make of the bloodstains on the left side of the sheet. Surely they were too far in front for a neck wound of that type? He had laughed aloud when he realized that he was conducting a postmortem on Holofernes. A voice behind him, cool and detached, had interrupted his forensic musings. “That’s an unusual reaction to that painting. Most men turn away in horror.” When he looked to see who had spoken, he was disconcerted to find the guest of honor, Artemisia Casati, standing directly behind him. He had confessed sheepishly to his thoughts on bloodstains and they had laughed together.

  She had talked of Artemisia Gentileschi as a feminist icon while he had silently admired her namesake’s dramatic good looks. She had a long-limbed, loose-jointed body of the type one usually associates with Americans fed on whole grains and hormone-laden beef, but the face and style were definitely Italian. Prominent cheekbones, strong almost masculine jaw, wide-spaced black eyes set beneath dramatically arched brows, a long Roman nose, full sensual lips painted a glistening crimson, and all enhanced by a marmoreal complexion and cropped raven-black hair, which looked, he thought, as though it had been cut with nail scissors, no doubt by the best hairdresser in Rome. He was no expert on women’s clothing either, but he was sure that her ankle-length gunmetal gray dress, of soft clingy wool, was a designer’s model and had cost a fortune. When she had finished discussing Gentileschi, he had confessed that he had not yet read her book but promised that he would as soon as his grandmother had finished it. They had parted on friendly terms with a promise by him to attend a private reception in Assisi the following week. He had forgotten all about it, perhaps deliberately! She was a study in artifice, somewhat intimidating in her cool detachment, and not really his type. But he had read her book.

  Cenni needn’t have worried about any awkwardness between them, at least not on her part. She was perfectly composed when she entered the library, extending her hand in greeting as though theirs were a business meeting between equals. As her father had done before her, she ignored Piero.

  “Dottore, what a shame to meet again under such tragic circumstances. What can we do to help?” she offered, taking her seat across from him while at the same time reaching for the cigarette box on the count’s desk. After taking a cigarette from the box, she hesitated a moment, waiting for one of them to light it. What surprised Cenni was her complete lack of embarrassment when neither of them did. She looked directly at him and reached for the lighter. “Posso,” she said rhetorically, before lighting her own cigarette.

  He found her apparent self-possession irritating as well as false. Whether Artemisia Casati had liked or disliked her cousin—and on the surface, at least, she was not grieving—Rita Minelli had met a violent and premature death, and the Casati family were deeply involved until proven otherwise. Cenni concluded that father and daughter resembled each other in more than just physical appearance; they had both adopted an attitude of noblesse oblige. They would fulfill their civic duty to help the police, even where they found such duty inconvenient and distasteful and the police vulgarly intrusive. Cenni didn’t believe this pose for a second.

  His first question was direct and open-ended. He asked if she knew of any reason why someone would want to kill her cousin. Her response was equally direct and needlessly personal.

  “I should think that’s self-evident, Dottore.” She paused, wrinkling her brow. “It is Dottore, isn’t it? I’m never quite sure how one should address the police,” she said before continuing. “A man capable of raping a woman in a cemetery, or anywhere else for that matter, would hardly stick at murder. I’m surprised that you’re spending so much time with us instead of looking for her killer. Rapists don’t usually stop at one, as I’m sure you must know. Easter week attracts an unusual number of visitors to Assisi. If this were my case, I would start there, as I doubt that any of our local citizens are capable of such vulgarity.”

  That’s all I need, he thought. A detective manqué! But he continued undeterred by the implied criticism. “Why do you assume that your cousin was raped? I never mentioned rape.”

  “É vero,” she acknowledged blowing a stream of smoke his way. “But Dottor Russo did. He told my father this morning that to all appearances Rita had been raped. You haven’t given us any reason to think otherwise.”

  He had no desire to spar with her and responded bluntly:

  “Nor will I! Until the postmortem is concluded and we know otherwise, we’ll assume she was not raped. So again, signora, do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill your cousin?”

  “No, certainly not,” she replied but the air of ironic detachment that she had shown in her previous responses was less evident. “Rita could be quite irritating at times, and she was certainly a busybody, but that’s hardly reason for anyone to kill her—anyone sane, that is. I don’t kn
ow who her friends were, or if she had any, although I did see her more than once walking with a man in the Piazza del Comune, one of those hermit types that flock to Assisi. You know the ones I mean: sandals in the dead of winter, no socks, scruffy beards, holes in their clothing—and just as often in their heads. Perhaps my mother knows his name.” She had made her position clear. No member of the Casati family was involved in her cousin’s death; focus on the crazy hermit!

  He then asked Artemesia to describe her activities on the day of the murder—specifically, if she’d spoken to or had seen her cousin that day. She responded that she had left the house a little after 10:00 to get a manicure and had returned at 11:00 when she went to her room to work on an article that she was writing for Arte. Some time after—she didn’t know the exact time—Rita had come into her room to make a suggestion about the forthcoming publication of the paperback version of A Woman’s Art.

  “You might ask Lucia the exact time,” she said, a slight edge to her voice. “I saw her lurking outside in the hall. That’s standard Lucia, always listening at keyholes.”

  She paused, grinding her cigarette into the ashtray—waiting, he was certain, for him to question her further concerning Rita’s visit to her bedroom. She’s nervous, he decided. She had changed her position in the last minute, crossing her legs, one of which he noticed with some interest had an ace bandage wrapped around the ankle. She’s remembered Lucia’s presence in the hallway yesterday when she and Rita had words and is ready with a plausible story, but she’s too clever to introduce the subject herself. I’ll let her stew a little longer, he thought, and waited for her to continue. She lighted another cigarette, this time directing the smoke in Piero’s direction.

  “At one o’clock I joined my parents and Paola for lunch. When we’d finished—about one-forty-five—my father and I retired to his library to discuss some aspects of an article I’m writing. I was with him until two-thirty, when I went upstairs to my room, where I continued working. At six-fifteen, I shut down my computer and started to get ready for the evening. At exactly seven-fifteen I left the house alone, by the front door, and walked to the Piazza del Comune.”

  When he asked Artemisia how she knew it was exactly 7:15, she replied that she had been a bit anxious that she might be late, as her parents had already left for the Piazza. She had looked at the clock in the downstairs hallway before leaving the house. “The clock keeps excellent time. It was exactly seven-fifteen.”

  When he probed further, she added that other than Rita’s earlier visit to her room, which had lasted no more than ten or fifteen minutes, she’d not seen her cousin again that day and had no idea when she’d left the house or where she’d gone. She also told him that she’d not seen any other members of the family after returning to her room at 2:30. She might have heard her parents moving about in their room some time after 6:00 but couldn’t say for sure. When she’d left the house, the door to their room was open but the room was empty. She hadn’t seen her niece after lunch. As Paola’s room was the closest to the back stairway, Paola could have come in or gone out at any time without anyone seeing her. She acknowledged the same of herself, finishing with a flourish of self-righteousness, “We don’t live in one another’s pockets!”

  “That’s obvious! Your cousin was noticeably missing for more than twelve hours, yet no one in the family reported it to the police,” he responded sharply, not trying to blunt his outrage. “The lack of concern about Signora Minelli’s whereabouts arises, apparently, from the notion that she had decided, and at the last hour, to become a processionist. Yet neither of your parents can recall who provided this information, although they’re both under the impression that it may have been you.” A small lie, he thought, as he waited for her reaction.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t me,” she responded indignantly. “I don’t monitor anyone’s comings and goings, certainly not hers. Believe me, Dottore, my cousin was not capable of carrying one of those crosses. She was far too small and lacked stamina. She could barely get up the hill from our house to the Piazza without huffing and puffing,” she added with contempt. “Talk to the boyfriend. He’ll probably know.”

  She was more relaxed now, giving full vent to her prickliness. Cenni thought it a good time to bring up her quarrel with Rita.

  “Let’s go back for a minute to your cousin’s visit to your room yesterday. You said earlier that she’d visited your room to give you a suggestion about the coming publication of your book in paperback. What suggestion was that?” he asked.

  She took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaling slowly. Buying time, he thought.

  “The dust jacket for the clothbound copy of my book is a reproduction of the Uffizi Judith. Rita didn’t like any of the Gentileschi Judiths, but she hated the Uffizi Judith. As I remember, you had a problem with it yourself,” she said, before taking another drag on her cigarette. “Rita thought the image too bloody awful, said it was off-putting. She suggested I use a picture of the Spada Madonna for the paperback edition. You may remember the Spada, Dottore. It was also on display at the Galleria Nazionale. The child is particularly charming and natural, especially when viewed against other paintings of the same genre and period, but it’s hardly equal to the Judith. I rejected her suggestion. We may have had a few words about it. I don’t remember exactly what was said.”

  “Bada ai fatti tuoi!” Cenni replied coolly, then waited for her to respond.

  She laughed in genuine delight. “Leave it to Lucia to remember the exact words. That one—she’s definitely wasted cleaning houses. Such a nose for intrigue! You should hire her!” It was the first time since entering the room that she’d let down her guard. She had a deep, spontaneous laugh, the kind that overheard in a crowded room makes one regret what he’s missing. Had he judged her too quickly? he wondered.

  “É vero, Dottore, I probably did tell Rita to mind her own business. She really was a meddler, you know! From what she’d told me, she had come into my room a few days earlier—uninvited!— to find out which brand of lipstick I use. Lately, she’s been copying me in just about everything. She saw the proofs for the book, which were lying open on the top of my desk, and decided that I should change the cover. Rita had no respect for privacy, other than her own, of course. She kept the door to her own room locked. Under the circumstances, Bada ai fatti tuoi! was less than she deserved to hear.”

  Cenni acknowledged to himself that it was a reasonable story and one that would be difficult to disprove. She had added enough detail—but not too much—to make it plausible. But from what the maid had told Elena, she had omitted one detail of significance.

  “I understand that your cousin was holding one of the manuscripts from your father’s library. What had that manuscript to do with your book?” he asked, observing her closely, looking for any flicker of surprise. He saw none and concluded that she had expected his question or might even be telling the truth.

  “Lucia is incorrigible. Rita has never had access to the library. As I’m sure my father has already informed you, the library is kept locked at all times except when he’s using it. Even I don’t have the combination. She’s mistaken! Rita was holding the clothbound copy of my book. I gave her an autographed copy in the summer, shortly after she’d arrived in Assisi. If you look in her room, you’ll probably find it there.”

  “The size and shape of your book are very different from any of the manuscripts in your father’s office. It’s hard to imagine that Lucia could mistake one for the other,” he responded, hoping to goad her further.

  Instead she turned his comment on its side. “May I take it then, Dottore, that you’ve read my book? Have you changed your mind about the Judith? It’s a wonderful painting. I hope I’ve convinced you of that at least,” she responded, her cold anger banked under an equally cold smile.

  For the moment Cenni was content. There’s always Lucia, he thought.

  17

  THE CASATIS’ MAID had achieved something of a reputation with the c
ommissario even before she took her seat in the library. From all accounts, including that of Elena, she was a habitual eavesdropper and gossip, and if Concetta were to be believed, a liar as well. Cenni found another unfortunate trait to add to the list. She was a practiced flirt, which he quickly surmised from the many sidelong glances she threw at him and at Piero each time she flipped her long frizzed hair over her shoulder. Piero, who normally was highly susceptible, didn’t seem to notice. That says a lot, Cenni thought, about his earlier declaration of indifference to Sergeant Antolini.

  Lucia Stampoli was in her late twenties, an inch or two above five feet if one subtracted the stiletto heels, and painfully thin but with Barbie doll curves. She was dressed conservatively, in navy blue wool pants, white shirt, and a navy jacket, but that, he supposed, was a requirement of the job. Her hair, makeup, and jewelry were not conservative and neither were her lips, her most distinctive feature. They were unnaturally full—silicone, he decided—and painted an intense red. Cenni disliked the recent phenomenon that had captured the Italian imagination of filling every fillable erogenous zone with silicone, but what he disliked even more was that he reacted this way. Just last week, Elena had accused him of showing his age when he had complained about noisy teenagers. He had laughed but later had to acknowledge to himself that she might have a point.

  After Lucia had settled herself—which had taken some time as she first had to line up her cigarettes, lighter, package of tissues, and telefonino on the desktop, cross her legs left to right, and arrange the bracelets on both arms so that they appeared to advantage—she indicated her readiness to begin with a mournful nod. She’s decided on a show of grief, but she’s actually enjoying herself, Cenni thought, observing the telltale signs of excitement in her flushed skin and glittering eyes. As he had with Concetta, he asked her to tell him about her job. Her response was a pleasant surprise after Concetta’s meandering. It was short and factual, with only the occasional digression.