Michelangelo's Ghost

by Gigi Pandian

  “You said your boyfriend has been around at the same times this mysterious person has been places, but that the thief has never been seen.”

  Mahilan swore. Repeatedly.

  “It’s not him,” I snapped. It’s not, I repeated to myself.

  “How do you know?” Mahilan asked. “From everything you’ve said about how his academic plans were derailed and how he helped you locate missing art in the past, it fits.”

  “No,” I said again, trying my best to stay calm. “It doesn’t.”

  “It’s clear that none of us know anything,” Mahilan said. “That’s why we’re all leaving. Today.”

  Everyone spoke at once. Mahilan won out with the commanding presence he’d developed from several years of courtroom law.

  “Only one thing is clear,” he said, pausing and holding up his index finger for dramatic effect. “An unknown person—” he paced the length of the suite’s living room, wincing as his ankle pained him, “—is following Jaya’s movements. The most logical assumption, the theory that’s supported by facts, is that this individual wishes to learn what she knows about Lazzaro Allegri’s paintings.”

  “Lane already knows about them,” I said.

  “You’re not helping yourself, JJ.”

  “There’s no reason for him to break in here. He knows I would tell him everything I know.”

  I feared my brother might have an aneurysm. “May I continue?” He held up his index finger again. “I don’t know how Triangle Man, whoever he is, is controlling the ghost.”

  “There’s no ghost,” I said.

  “You saw it,” he said. His confident stance shifted to that of the scared little boy, a look I remembered from when we got on an airplane for the first time. “And you heard it, Jaya. How can you have heard that thing and think that howl was made by a living person?”

  “You gave yourself the answer in your choice of words,” I said. “A howl. It could have been a wild animal. Everyone says the ghost only returns when it rains, so it’s an animal who doesn’t like the rain.”

  “It didn’t sound like an animal to me,” Ava whispered. Her normally confident attitude was nowhere to be seen.

  It hadn’t sounded like an animal to me either, but I wasn’t going to admit it. There had to be a logical explanation. There had to be. I was going to find it. And get Lane back while I was at it.

  “The only thing we’re doing here,” Mahilan said, “is looking into a meaningless set of paintings that most likely don’t exist. Otherwise we could have gone on vacation anywhere on earth. Yet here in Bomarzo, Italy, there’s some sort of danger. A danger that may or may not involve Jaya’s boyfriend, who may or may not really be her boyfriend, whom she kept a secret from the one person she promised she’d never lie to.”

  The look of disappointment on his face was too much for me.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he continued, “but I don’t intend to stay here bringing danger upon the two women I love.”

  As soon as he said the words, he realized what he’d said out loud. His face turned scarlet.

  Ava’s hands flew to her mouth. She stepped across the room and kissed him.

  Chapter 32

  I excused myself—not that Mahilan and Ava were paying any attention to me—grabbed my messenger bag, and left the two of them alone in the suite. I stopped in the breakfast room to grab a cornetto, a croissant-like pastry filled with chocolate, and took the snack outside to figure out what I was going to do.

  I walked the lush grounds until I found a secluded spot overlooking the beautiful vista of valleys, hills, and vineyards. I must have been standing on the highest spot on the grounds, yet I couldn’t enjoy the view. I enjoyed the pastry though. I’m human.

  Though the harsh rains of the night before had given way to a cloudless blue sky, the outdoor bench was too damp to sit on. It was probably for the best, since I had too much nervous energy. I checked my phone for messages. There was still no word from Lane.

  I had to do something, but every idea I had was a bad one. The least bad idea I had was Henry North.

  I’d met North when he used me as bait in a plan to obtain an object hidden at the Louvre. After what I’d learned of the man, what we’d gone through together, and the promises we made when we parted ways, I wouldn’t say I felt confident he would help me. But I was certain he wouldn’t harm me simply because I reached out to him. I had nothing to lose by trying. Especially now. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to find him. Lane Peters would know, except it was Lane I was trying to find.

  High atop the hill with the medieval village that had been turned into a luxury resort, the wind hadn’t received the message that it was supposed to leave high-paying guests alone. My hair whipped ferociously around my face, jabbing at my eyes.

  The strong warm winds were similar to winds I knew: the Santa Ana winds of southern California and the Paekaathu winds of south India. I shivered as I remembered what the Tamil name for these swirling winds meant: ghost winds.

  I didn’t want to stay outside, but I also couldn’t face the suite with Mahilan and Ava. I had the rental car key in my messenger bag. That would do. I found the muddy Fiat 4x4 in the villa’s parking lot, tossed my bag on the passenger seat, and made a phone call.

  Henry North had once lured me to a Parisian hotel under false pretenses. He knew the hotel well, and I had wondered if it served as a home base. I called the hotel. As expected, the desk clerk told me they had no such guest staying there. The polite Frenchman agreed to write down my message and phone number in case the guest checked in at a future date. His bored tone made me wonder how many hopeless messages he’d written down over the course of his employment. I imagined a sad stack of unread messages piled high behind the front desk of the hotel.

  I laughed at the irony of me trying to contact North, rather than the pains he’d taken to find me before. The laugh died on my lips. One of the things North had done was listen to my conversations with an ingeniously placed bug.

  I spent the next twenty minutes inspecting each item in my messenger bag, from the magnifying glass (for reading historical documents) to the squished granola bar (I hated being hungry). Once I was sure everything was as it should be, I traced the seams of the bag. For good measure, I also looked at the soles of my shoes.

  Perhaps I was being paranoid. All right, I was definitely being paranoid. But now that I knew this treasure had attracted a more accomplished thief, I wasn’t taking any chances that I hadn’t been bugged. As far as I could tell, I hadn’t. I would have loved to say I felt better, but I didn’t.

  I looked out the car windows at the tree branches swaying in the wind. I had to do something to convince my brother we shouldn’t leave Bomarzo. And, more importantly, to win back his trust. It hadn’t felt like a betrayal, but it was. What kind of life was I leading if I couldn’t talk to the person who’d pretty much raised me and who I’d promised I would never lie to? We couldn’t count on our dad, but we were supposed to be able to count on each other. I was good at many things, but apparently being a sister wasn’t one of them.

  It was my natural inclination to go it alone. Alone and all in. North had been right. I’d enjoyed the adrenaline rush of being involved in a criminal enterprise. It was similar to the rush of endorphins I experienced on long runs, but much more intense. That didn’t mean I wanted to become a criminal or take unnecessary risks. But taking calculated risks against criminals to save historic discoveries, and bring to justice thieves who’d evaded the law for years and who’d upgraded from larceny to kidnapping or worse? That was something I could get behind. That was a good thing for the world, wasn’t it? If it meant keeping my family out of the loop to keep them safe, it was worth it. Unless it wasn’t.

  I wanted everything, and as a result I had nothing. Was this how Lilith Vine had begun? Full of ideas and energy and wanting to make a d
ifference to both her students and the world? I was a great teacher and put my students first when I was at home, but I was lured away all too frequently. That meant I would probably never have the stable professorial life I wanted, because Naveen would be the one to be granted tenure. I had people in my life I cared about, but I lied to all of them. My motivations were good, but I was no longer sure the ends justified the means.

  There was nothing more I could do at that moment to find Lane Peters and the unknown thief or make things right with the people I cared about. But I could realize Lilith’s last wishes and bring to light a cross-cultural connection nobody knew existed by finding Lazzaro Allegri’s hidden masterpieces.

  Chapter 33

  It was only mid-morning, but the sculpture garden had opened at eight thirty, so the parking lot was already rather crowded. The wind wasn’t as strong in the flatlands, so it was a lovely day for a family picnic and stroll in the shadow of macabre monsters.

  My quest of the morning was to find Francesco. I didn’t know where he’d be on his rounds of the park, so I decided to begin with the stone creature at the center of everything. Making sure there were no green-shirted men in sight, I stepped off the path near the battling giants that towered above me. I cut through the overgrowth and took what I hoped was a shortcut to the Ogre, that guardian of Hell who might hold Lazzaro’s secrets.

  Tree branches slapped my face. I didn’t care. The abrasive touch of the ancient trees grounded me. In the midst of history, I was so close to bringing together the stories of unknown painter Lazzaro Allegri, the Sultan of Gujarat, and Italy’s artistic royalty: Michelangelo. I stepped over a rock and emerged from my shortcut near a mermaid and two lions. Almost there.

  As my eyes fell on the frozen scream of the Ogre’s doorway mouth, I saw that the young mother had been right. The morning sun filtering through the trees cast a celestial light on the beast. In the halo of warm yellow light, he looked almost peaceful. Almost. Like me. Standing in the sacred gardens that had stood for nearly five centuries, I felt both contented and confused, both alone and alive.

  The thief ^V^ had to be the person who’d killed Lilith and followed me to Italy to find Lazzaro Allegri’s paintings.

  But how had he found out about them?

  I found Francesco hiding behind his favorite rock, on the lower end of the maze-like park near the outdoor theater, waiting to startle a group of approaching children.

  At least I was pretty sure it was him. Today, instead of a pirate hat he wore a full cape with a hood hiding his face.

  Francesco had the knowledge that could help me find Lazzaro Allegri’s paintings before ^V^. If I asked the right questions, I might be able to glean more relevant pieces of history.

  “Ah!” Francesco straightened up from his crouched position and threw back the hood, revealing his full head of white hair. “My friend, signora Jaya. It is magnificent to see you today. Though I am sorry for what you must have heard last night.” He kissed my cheeks in greeting.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” I said slowly. Every inch of my skin prickled at the memory of that soulful wail.

  “I warned you, did I not, that if you heard the story, you would hear the ghost.”

  “How did you—”

  “I live not far from here. I believe you are staying nearby as well, no?”

  I studied his face. His relaxed eyes matched the lips that smiled beneath his Roman nose. Did he know I’d been at the Park of Monsters the night before? If he did, he didn’t show it. Francisco couldn’t be the thief’s source of information, could he? Is that why he’d tried to scare me off with the full ghost story? I groaned inwardly. And who better than an actor to impersonate a ghost? Especially an actor who worked at the place where we saw the ghost.

  “I heard it,” I said. “And it has me intrigued.”

  “You must not follow the sound, signora. Please. As a foreigner, this is especially dangerous. I told you what happened to the American actor.” His eyes were pleading. But he was an actor, I reminded myself.

  “Let us go behind the sleeping Nymph. We can talk there without the principales seeing me.” He winked and led me to a giant stone woman three times the size of a person. She was lounging on a correspondingly massive stone plank, and from my line of sight she looked more dead than sleeping.

  I hesitated before following Francesco behind the giant Nymph. He wasn’t kidding that the statue was large enough to shield us from view. The question was whether he was hiding himself from his boss—or if he wanted to get me out of sight.

  Even if Francesco was working with a thief and impersonating the ghost, that didn’t mean he knew about any violence or would perpetrate any himself. But I knew better than to think I understood what a person was capable of. I kept a safe amount of space between us, but I did follow. With Lane missing and a brazen thief arriving, I was desperate. I was going to find out what Francesco knew. Did he believe what he was telling me, or was he trying to lead me astray?

  “I was wondering if you would tell me more about your past life as Vicino Orsini,” I said. “Back in the 1500s when you knew Lazzaro Allegri.”

  “My name was Pier Francesco ‘Vicino’ Orsini,” he corrected me. “I even share one of his names. What can I tell you about my sacred gardens? I employed Pirro Ligorio to realize my vision to honor my wife. I—”

  “I didn’t ask about the gardens. I asked about Lazzaro.”

  “Ah, yes. He was much older. A strange man. Yet I liked him. We were both misunderstood by our families. This is why my gardens were not maintained by my family after my death. Lazzaro liked to walk in my gardens. They gave him inspiration. I am glad for my friend that he died before his cousin Marguerite and never had to hear her tortured cries.”

  He was using the same techniques as a fake medium. He seemed to say a lot, but in truth said very little. Everything he told me was vague generalities based on the few facts he knew. He tried to steer things in the direction he wanted, always returning to the gardens of the Park of Monsters, which he knew about from written history. Much less was known of Lazzaro, so Francesco shifted his answers away from facts about the artist to universal human emotions.

  Be it through ignorance or purposeful misdirection, Francesco didn’t have the historical missing pieces I needed. I didn’t have to humor him any longer.

  “I know the true history, Francesco,” I said. “In the original ghost story, it’s Antonio Allegri, Marguerite’s husband, who’s supposed to be the ghost.”

  Francesco’s easy smile faltered. “The memories, they are veiled, you understand? Not so clear.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “You understand, signora.”

  “I understand that you don’t actually believe you’re the reincarnation of Vicino Orsini.”

  He peeked over the hip of the sleeping Nymph. When he returned his attention to me, he gave an overly dramatic shrug. “You know I am an attore. An actor.”

  “So it’s an act? Why?”

  “It is difficult to stand out. It always has been. I was what they call a ‘character actor’ for many years.” He tapped his prominent nose. “After I acted in the doomed film of Bomarzo, I went to Rome. I acted in many films. Never the leading man, but good roles. It was part of my persona that I believed I had lived many past lives. The directors, they believed it helped me get into character.”

  “But I’m not a filmmaker. And neither are your coworkers. You don’t have to fool us.”

  He grinned. “It became a part of me.” He peeked over the Nymph again. “My family is from Bomarzo. Many generations. I was born here. I began acting in local theatrical productions. This is where I was discovered. The director, he loved my story. And now…” He pointed at the green shirt uniform he wore under his cape. “I am too old for most parts, but not yet old enough to play the ‘old man’ roles. I must find the theatrical wherever I can.
These stones and the children who visit them are my audience. For their parents I recite soliloquies.”

  “So you don’t know about the true history of these parts? You were serious when you said the ghost in the story was Marguerite Allegri, not Antonio?”

  “You are mistaken. I do know very much about local history. The ghost is Marguerite. Of this I am certain. You heard her cries yourself.”

  “Wait. You do believe in the ghost?”

  “I am not so crazy to think that I have the memories of a long-dead man. But is it not also crazy to ignore that sorrowful siren song that calls to us when it rains?”

  “Have you ever pretended to be the ghost?”

  “Sei pazza?” He tapped his forehead. “Are you crazy? This would be bad luck.”

  I balled my fists in frustration. I must have tensed my whole body, because I felt my heels sinking into the damp ground. Without my boots, I should have stayed on the paved path. What was I doing hiding behind a statue with a man I thought might have been hired to help scare me away from Lazzaro’s treasure?

  “You are frustrated,” Francesco said. “I can see this. I know it is difficult for some people to believe in the ghost. But how could a person imitate that sound?” He cleared his throat and attempted to mimic a woman’s moan. It came across more like an injured goose. He tried again. This time it sounded like a rabid sheep.

  I agreed it would have been difficult for a person to mimic the sound we heard. Someone with technical knowledge could have generated the sound with electronics. But the ghostly figure we’d seen at the Park of Monsters had to have been a person.

  “What about these games you play with the kids at the park?” I said. “Do you ever come back at night to do the same thing?”

  He looked as me as if I’d made a rude comment about his mother. “The park is closed during the night. It is not illuminated. Stupid tourists who sneak in after dark have injured themselves many times.”