by Julie Hyzy
“Did we?” Nico seemed confused.
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” Bennett said. I knew him well enough to know he was making it up as he went along. He lifted one hand from the skull to snap his fingers near his temple. “I can’t come up with the name, and that bothers me.” With an embarrassed glance to the group, he said, “You all caught me frowning at my frustration. I apologize; one of the problems of old age.”
Now I knew he was fibbing. Bennett didn’t try to hide his age, but he wasn’t the type to blame a mistake on a “senior moment,” either. He started to return the skull to its perch, but stopped. “Gracie,” he said, handing it over, “I’d like you to feel the weight of this.”
From the odd tone of his voice and his impatience motioning me forward, I knew there was something definitely amiss. Cesare was required to step back to allow me to stand next to Bennett.
“Are you sure you trust me?” I asked, trying to divine Bennett’s thoughts.
He placed the skull in my hands. “I always trust you,” he said, then added so softly that even Cesare probably couldn’t hear, “Right there. Look.”
He pointed to a spot on the skull that was immediately below where the right ear would have been.
I didn’t see anything unusual where Bennett pointed. He avoided my eyes as he returned the skull to its perch and Cesare replaced the clear box.
“We have many more stories to share with these young ladies at dinner tonight, don’t we, Bennett?” Nico said, apparently oblivious to his friend’s discomposure. “Cesare, will you join us this evening?”
The dark eyes widened, and he placed his fingertips together, prayerfully again, but this time under his chin. “It would be my great honor,” he said with a deferential bow. “I am delighted to accept.”
“Until then, I beg my leave,” Nico said. “I must rest.” He extended his hands outward. “Please enjoy my treasures for as long as you like.” To me and Bennett, he added, “Angelo or Marco will show you to your rooms if you care to revive yourselves before dinner. If you wish, I am certain that Irena will show you other areas you may care to explore. Please make this home your own.”
With a beatific smile, he receded from our midst, stone-faced Angelo wheeling him away.
Chapter 4
I WANTED TO TALK WITH BENNETT ALONE, TO find out what had bothered him when he’d examined the Picasso skull, but we never got the chance. Our rooms, much to my delight, were in one of the two central towers, up several flights of stone stairs, making me especially happy that we hadn’t been required to haul our luggage all the way up here ourselves. Marco accompanied us, preventing conversation. We left Bennett at his room on the second floor, where he and I agreed to meet before we headed down to dinner in an hour.
Marco led me up one more floor, where the tower narrowed slightly. “This way,” he said, his voice echoing against the stone walls. The effect would have been creepy if it weren’t for the waning sunshine trickling in from the corridor’s narrow windows. From what I could tell, there were only two rooms on this level. Before Marco opened the first door to my right, I asked, “Do others stay in these rooms”—I gestured farther down the hall—“or are we alone?”
When his brows came together, I realized he thought I was concerned about my own safety. “There will be no one to bother you, signorina. We do not allow strangers into the villa.”
Rather than explain that I meant to ask whether the family and staff bedrooms were in this tower as well, I murmured my thanks. Gallantly, he turned the knob and pushed at the three-inch-thick wooden door. It slid open with barely a whisper, despite the fact that its heavy hinges had been in place longer than I’d been on the planet. Marco stayed in the hallway and I stepped past him, catching sight of my luggage in the far corner of this large room.
Before he left, I asked, “Mi scusi, dove’è il bagno?” one of the more important Italian phrases I’d mastered before we left home.
Curling his index finger, Marco had me follow him a little farther down the hall, just one door away from my room. I took a quick peek in and noted that the shower—darn it—was the handheld kind. The two things I missed from back home were fixed showerheads and full-width doors or curtains. Every single shower I’d taken in this country had resulted in puddles on the floor.
I thanked him, and as I made my way back to my room, he reminded me to feel free to call on him for anything I might need.
What I needed most, right now, I thought as I shut the door behind me, was to get myself ready for dinner quickly enough to allow time to talk with Bennett before we headed back downstairs. I needed to know what was troubling him.
I made way for my things, puzzled by the lack of décor in this room. If it wasn’t used very often it made sense not to decorate the space, but compared to the rest of the house, where priceless items fairly sat on top of one another, this stark, barren room was a surprise. Other than the double bed, an insignificant dresser in serious need of refinishing, the foggy oval mirror that hung above it, and a couple of utilitarian lamps, the room was empty. There weren’t even curtains on the two tall windows. At least the glass was clean. I peered out, over the lush landscape and at the neighboring tower. With the sun still bright enough, the rooms that mirrored mine were dark, and I couldn’t see inside. I wondered if anyone stayed in them.
Didn’t matter now. What I needed was to get myself out the door again.
I took take care of all necessary freshening, then pulled on a stretchy but forgiving black-and-white dress and sling-back low pumps. It occurred to me that there was no lock on my door, though, thankfully, someone had put a hook on the one for the bathroom. I took a final look at my reflection in the small mirror over the room’s lone dresser, and headed downstairs to catch Bennett. We had at least a half hour before we were due at dinner.
Just as I made it to his room, I heard what sounded like an argument in Italian; one man’s voice, one woman’s. It wasn’t Irena, of that I was certain. I wanted to creep closer and find out who was arguing, even though it was none of my business.
At that moment, Bennett’s door opened, and he nearly jumped to see me standing there.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.
He glanced side to side down the corridor. “What’s all that racket? Who’s having a fight?”
“No idea,” I said. “If you’d like me to find out, however . . .”
“I want nothing of the kind,” he said. “You know what trouble you get into when you poke your nose into other people’s business.”
“I do,” I said. “I’ll stay out of it, but—” Ready to broach the topic I most wanted to ask about, I held off when the arguing abruptly stopped.
Bennett and I exchanged a silent, wary glance.
“I guess they’ve resolved their differences,” I whispered.
Bennett frowned, keeping his voice low, too. “Either that, or they heard us talking and thought better of airing their grievances in front of guests.”
“Speaking of which—” I began.
Just then, Angelo lumbered into view. Cheeks flushed, hands fisted, his face was a thundercloud of fury. That is, until he saw us. Eyebrows startled upward, he adopted a more passive expression. With a nod of greeting, he walked past at a quick clip and when he turned a corner, we heard a door slam.
“At least we know one of the combatants,” Bennett said.
“I wonder what that was all about. And who he was arguing with.”
“Grace.” His voice was a warning. “Repeat after me, ‘I will keep my nose clean this time.’” He held an index finger aloft, between us. “We have one more night here in Europe, and we’ve been safe thus far. Let’s not take any chances.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, giving a mock salute.
“Shall we go down to dinner?” he asked. With a glance at his watch and a re
signed shrug, he added, “We’ll be early, of course, but I wanted to take another look at that gallery.” His brow furrowed and his voice dropped another notch. “There’s something not right—”
“About the skull?”
From the far end of the hall: “There you are!”
We both looked up to see Irena coming our way. “I was looking for you, Grace,” she said, striding to join us. “Are you going down now? May I join you?”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said.
I could tell from the look on Bennett’s face that he preferred to hold off our discussion of the skull until we were alone. “I’ll meet you there shortly,” he said. “I have something I’d like to attend to first.” He disappeared down the hall.
Irena fisted both hips as she assessed me. “Your last night in Europe,” she said, her eyes glittering. “I can think of no better city to spend it in than here in Firenze. I have plans for us. This will be a night for you to remember when you return to the States.”
“A quiet evening will be good enough—”
“Nonsense,” she said, wrapping her hand around my arm and guiding me down the hall. “Tonight, my American friend, we will have fun.”
I had the uncomfortable feeling that Irena’s and my sense of fun were worlds apart.
• • •
DESPITE THE FACT THAT BENNETT AND I HAD made it our business to sample local cuisine at every opportunity on this trip, this night’s dinner was—by far—the most incredible dining experience I had ever encountered. Each course was served to us by gloved butlers, and it was apparent from Nico’s keen, delighted expression that he was eager to impress. He sat at the table’s head, with Bennett to Nico’s right and me next to Bennett. Irena sat across from us, and Cesare next to her. The rest of the long, sixteen-seat table remained empty.
I patted my lips with a napkin as our dinner plates were whisked away. Bennett sat back. “Nico, your chef is to be complimented. Where did you find this master?”
“I hired Antoinette as an assistant, but she quickly proved herself. She runs my kitchen now. Indeed, she believes she runs most of the household.”
“A woman?” Cesare asked. The disbelief in his voice would have been laughable if the implication that a woman being unworthy of such a lofty position wasn’t so offensive.
“You enjoyed your dinner, did you not?” Nico asked.
Cesare hurried to unruffle his host’s feathers. “I am only surprised that you have not mentioned this woman before.”
Lame, but Nico didn’t call him out. Instead, he made a so-so motion with his hands and leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Our chef is a bit temperamental at times, would you agree, Irena?”
His daughter sent a wary glance toward the kitchen. “If she weren’t so talented, she’d have been sacked long ago.”
“Bennett, my good friend,” Nico said. “Take my advice. Two strong-willed women in one household may buy you many rewards.” He shook his head solemnly even as a smile played at his lips. “But there is much risk, as well.”
Cesare, ever eager to reclaim his standing in the conversation, laughed hard. Too hard.
“Grace has her hands full with her assistant, Frances,” Bennett said. “But after a rocky start, I think they’ve found common ground.”
Frances hadn’t been first in my mind. It was Hillary I more worried about. With an uncomfortable pang, I realized that she would have moved into her new Emberstowne home by now. I wasn’t looking forward to having her as a neighbor.
“Antoinette isn’t so bad, Father.” Irena’s eye roll belied her words. “As long as she remembers her place.”
Butlers set dessert in front of each of us. Even as I lifted my spoon to sample the gelato, I wondered how I’d fit another bite in my too-full stomach.
Irena leaned forward. “Angelo will drive us into town this evening,” she said. “Father prefers that I be accompanied. Florence is full of students and I’ve never had a problem, but it makes him feel better to know that Angelo is watching out for me.”
Oh great. Lovelorn Angelo assigned to accompany us on the town. “Will he stay with us the whole time?”
She laughed as though that was a funny question. “Of course not. How would we enjoy our girl talk if he did? No,” she said with jovial finality, “he stays nearby and keeps an eye on me, but he doesn’t actually join in the conversation.”
“That seems unfair to Angelo.”
Irena shrugged. “He doesn’t mind.”
For the first time since I’d encountered Angelo, I began to feel empathy for the big man. He, Marco, and Gianfranco were nowhere to be seen. I assumed they were taking their dinner in a less opulent spot in the house. I wondered what life must be like for Angelo—for all of them. To be on call for Nico all day and then for Irena all night. No wonder he asked about me. Other than the temperamental chef, Antoinette, I might very well be the only female he’d met in a long time.
“Speak of the devil,” Irena said as Angelo strode into the room. She addressed him in Italian and he responded in the affirmative.
Dropping her spoon and making her apologies to her father and Bennett, she reached across the table to grab my hand. “Are you ready?” she asked. Behaving more like an enthusiastic twenty-year-old than a fortysomething woman, she sighed contentedly. “It’s been so long since I’ve visited the United States. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to talking with you. I want to know everything about what goes on there.”
I knew Bennett could read my mood. I also knew how much he appreciated the fact that I was allowing him this evening with Nico. I hoped that hard-smiling Cesare would take his leave sooner rather than later. Perhaps tomorrow, maybe even before we left, I’d find out more about the problem with the Picasso skull.
As I walked around the table, thanking Nico for a wonderful dinner and expressing my delight at spending the evening with Irena, I decided that while Bennett pumped Nico for information, there was nothing stopping me from digging into what Irena might know. I could do that. And maybe the evening wouldn’t be such a waste after all.
“What are we waiting for?” I said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 5
THE LAST TIME I WAS IN AN ESTABLISHMENT like this one, it was more than five years ago in New York City—and I’d left after ten minutes. Emberstowne didn’t offer this sort of pulsating neon experience, but Troppo was Irena’s destination of choice, and I’d resolved to be a good guest.
As I stepped from the cool, quiet evening into the stuffy, dark bar, the bass beat hit me full in the chest before the music reached my ears. “Wow,” I said, but my voice was lost in the throbbing rhythm. Bodies gyrated—mostly in pairs—atop a blinking pink-and-purple dance floor. There was a rock band playing far across the room. They were pretty good, at least to my ear, and although I couldn’t make out their lyrics, I could tell they were singing in English. That surprised me. I strove for a better look. Four men, leather clad and dark wigged, wore heavy eyeliner and studded dog collars around straining necks. I felt as though I’d stepped through a time warp. The music seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d heard it before.
We wound our way through the crowds of drink-sipping non-dancers with me realizing, belatedly, that everyone there was at least ten years younger than I was. Which meant twenty years younger than Irena. I didn’t bother trying to talk—she wouldn’t have heard a word I said.
So much for quiet conversation.
She led the way through throngs of young people, some of whom glared at our intrusion, some of whom were too glassy-eyed and bland-faced to notice. Angelo followed us, and I got the impression that both he and Irena had a clear destination in mind. I hoped so. At this rate, there was no chance we’d find a table.
Through musky clouds of perfume, hot body odor, and the unmistakab
le, cloying scent of booze, we made our way through Troppo’s immense gathering space. At a corner as far from the front doors as we could have gone, Irena pushed open a heavy, black glass door, taking us into a blissfully clear hallway that smelled of chlorinated water and sounded like someone had left a faucet running.
A stone waterfall along the right, bathed in spotlights, illuminated the dark passageway with dim patches of hot pink. The door shut behind Angelo, bringing welcome quiet. Only a hint of the vibrating backbeat made its way through the thick glass.
“This way,” Irena said. Her words, coming so quickly after the booming bass, were overly loud, but I didn’t mind that, or the sudden cool. I ran the side of my hand against my hairline to brush away lingering clamminess.
Irena didn’t hesitate. She made straight for a stairway on the right and started up immediately, one long-fingered hand on its blue neon handrail. Turning, she said, “We’ll be fine, Angelo. You can wait here.”
The big man grunted, but continued to follow.
I closed the distance between me and Irena. “I thought Angelo didn’t understand English.”
“Yeah.” She gave a soft, peppermint-infused laugh. “That’s what he wants us to believe.”
A maître d’ met us at the top of the stairs, recognizing Irena immediately. They conversed genially in Italian for a moment before he led us into a cozy, candlelit room with warm-hued stone walls, deep-purple linens, and a view through a wall of glass of the busy dance floor below. We could see the band members working their instruments with pounding drive, but it was like watching high-energy, silent marionettes. Up here, the entertainment was provided by a quartet of musicians doing a fair rendition of a Beatles’ ballad.
Our fellow patrons took advantage of the quiet. Most of them were deep in conversation, and all were dressed in what we Americans refer to as “business casual.” I sighed with relieved pleasure as we made our way to one of the empty tables up against the wall window. This was a far cry from the noisy dance floor we’d just passed through.
