Michelangelo's Ghost

by Gigi Pandian

  I let his words sink in. “I’m not frightened of this. Not exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going to become her, Lane.” I whispered the words, not quite ready to admit the truth out loud. “I’m afraid I’m going to become just like Lilith Vine. Giving her the benefit of the doubt and assuming she didn’t harm Wilson Meeks or try to hurt herself to trick me, I mean the rest of it. What she did with her life.”

  “You enjoy a good scotch. That hardly means you’re going to become an alcoholic.”

  “Not that. Her career. She made a big discovery in her twenties. After that, her whole life was spent trying to recapture that former glory. She chased one thing after another. Never focusing. Never contributing to historical knowledge as she otherwise might have.”

  “Ah. You think her fate awaits you, because you have been known to follow a lead. I believe you were thirty when you found—”

  I threw a pillow at him. “Ouch.”

  “That didn’t hurt.”

  “I’m weakened because I haven’t had anything to eat all day. I’ve been stuck in transit.”

  I tossed him a granola bar from my bag.

  “Really? You’ve been eating Tuscan delicacies and I get a squished granola bar?”

  “We’re in the region of Lazio, not Tuscany. And you’re trying to distract me.” I smiled in spite of my frustration. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And you’re not going to become Lilith Vine. You’ve made real discoveries that have not only furthered historical knowledge but helped a lot of people. Unlike her, you’re not chasing phantoms.”

  “Speaking of phantoms—”

  “I know. We should get back to your ghost.”

  “The ghost doesn’t fit into the timeline. Not even the revised one with Ava. The locals couldn’t all be in on a conspiracy to invent a false ghost story and then convince me it had been invented during Lazzaro Allegri’s lifetime. Even if we were conspiracy theorists, it’s simply not possible to get a whole province of Italy to go along with such a charade. Besides, I’d swear that the 16th-century book from the library that contained the ghost story was authentic. How does the ghost story fit into the puzzle? I should take you to the Park of Monsters so you can see the setting for yourself.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking should be our next step.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I trust that you didn’t miss anything at the park. In broad daylight while the park is open to visitors, I’m not sure what I would catch that the rest of you missed. I’m not an expert on topography, rock formations, or hidden meanings in Latin inscriptions. But there was a glaring omission in the steps you’ve taken: Lazzaro’s paintings.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me? That’s all I’ve been talking about.”

  “Not his missing masterpieces. The two paintings he sent home from India. The ones that are accounted for.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. How could I have overlooked that?

  “Don’t worry, Jaya. We each approach things from what we can bring to the table. Since I know art history, it’s those paintings I thought of. While I was on my way here, I looked on the internet to see where they’re located. They’re in a museum not far from here. If we hurry, we can make it before the museum closes.”

  Chapter 47

  Before we headed out the door, I found the rope ladder and scoured the suite for my sneakers, since I still planned on bringing Lane to the Park of Monsters.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said, holding a solitary running shoe in my hand. “Sanjay truly made my second sneaker disappear.”

  I fumed about Ava as Lane drove us to the museum in his rental car. I was going to kill her for leading Mahilan on and breaking his heart, even if she had eventually fallen for him too. Not to mention for trying to steal Lazzaro Allegri’s paintings out from under me. And for making me realize that I loved both Lane and Sanjay.

  “If you’re right that Ava is in love with your brother,” Lane said, “she’s on borrowed time, trying to figure out her next move so she can both find her treasure and keep her man.”

  “Are you okay with that?”

  “The fact that she’s moved on? It was a shock to find out she was alive, but I’ve been over her for fifteen years, Jaya.”

  “Why are we pulling over? We’re not there yet.”

  Off the side of the narrow road, Lane put the Opel Mokka, a small SUV similar to the Fiat Panda, into park. With one hand he undid my seatbelt, and with the other he pulled me across the car into his arms. When I came up for air from his kiss, his glasses were fogged up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t wait a moment longer to do that.”

  I turned my head to one side. Then the other. Wasn’t that what people did when trying to appreciate art? I stepped closer. Then I stepped back, making sure to do so carefully. The floor sloped in the small museum housed in a 15th-century home.

  “Lazzaro’s paintings are awful,” I said. The building itself captured my imagination more than the paintings filled with a cacophony of colors. I could imagine the generations of families who’d lived under this roof. Even if the floor had been leveled, the low roof would have been a reminder of how old the building was. Lane had to stoop to walk through the doorways.

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Lane said. “There’s a certain raw talent you can see in his artwork.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “He was young when he made these. It looks like he was still finding his form. The museum and its scholars saw the value—”

  “It’s a small museum. Are you sure it’s not because the Allegris are a noble family?”

  “Nobility doesn’t mean much in Italy.”

  “I thought there were tons of noble families here.”

  “That’s the problem,” Lane said. “There are too many, so it’s nothing special. Influential families were granted titles through promotions within the Catholic church, judicial appointments, or simply buying them. I’d guess that nearly half of Italy can claim noble blood.”

  “Okay, so he didn’t get in this museum because of his ties to nobility.”

  “I’m wondering if he got in because of his ties to Michelangelo,” Lane said, looking around. The small room was filled with 16th-century paintings. “This placard says Lazzaro worked with him, but doesn’t back it up.”

  “Lilith mentioned that too, but I didn’t find anything to back up that assertion either. Maybe she saw this same placard when she visited Bomarzo. I wonder if everyone got that wrong, thinking there was a connection because Lazzaro was once heralded as ‘the next Michelangelo.’ Which doesn’t necessarily mean they knew each other or had any connection.”

  “But it was a small community in many ways,” Lane murmured.

  “Stefano also told me about a theory that Michelangelo designed the Park of Monsters with Vicino Orsini.”

  “The gardens were designed by Pirro Ligorio. Not Michelangelo.”

  “Stefano wouldn’t entertain a theory that didn’t have supporting evidence.”

  “Is he an art historian?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “This is my specialty, Jaya. Whatever connection Michelangelo might have had to Lazzaro Allegri, it wasn’t through the Park of Monsters.”

  He must have seen the look of disappointment on my face.

  “Maybe Lazzaro knew Michelangelo around the Florentine art scene and got so sick of him that an offer from that Sultan of Gujarat was welcome. There’s your answer about how he got to India.” Lane made a mock bow.

  “Was Michelangelo really that bad?”

  Lane shrugged. “There’s no way to know. Most experts think he was a jerk, but you know that history is written by people with their own biases. Art history is no different. Does it really matter?”r />
  “Of course it matters.”

  “Michelangelo left us beautiful art that speaks to our souls. The Renaissance is about rebirth. Bringing classical ideas of truth and beauty into the lives of everyday people, using new techniques like perspective. That contribution to the world lasts longer than whatever slights he inflicted on people during his life. That beauty and truth last for eternity.”

  I brought Lane’s lips down onto mine, not caring if anyone saw. As it happened, not many people appeared to appreciate Lazzaro Allegri’s early paintings. We were alone in the room.

  “Am I forgiven, then?” Lane asked, adjusting his glasses.

  “That was for bringing truth and beauty into my life. I’m not sure about the forgiveness part.”

  “I shouldn’t have kept things from you. Anything. I was trying to protect you by not telling you more about the circumstances of Mia’s—I guess I should try harder to call her Ava now—about the circumstances of what I thought was Ava’s death. I even have an old photograph of her I took without her knowing. She was always careful.”

  I wondered how careful she was being right now, on the run with my brother. Lane didn’t believe she was a killer. Did I believe that too?

  “You look worried again,” Lane said. “Look, this possible Michelangelo connection doesn’t matter. It isn’t going to help us find Lazzaro’s art.”

  “No, you were right to bring us here to the museum. I’ve been so focused on the location of his art studio that I haven’t been doing what I do best—analyzing things through history.”

  “You’ve done that without even realizing it, Jones. You’ve found Lazzaro’s history: the Allegri ghost that bridges past and present. There’s got to be a reason why someone is pretending to be the ghost.”

  “You can ask the ghost the next time we see him. Are you ready to go?”

  “First let me see if I can find someone who works here. They should know more than these general descriptions they’ve placed next to Lazzaro’s artwork.”

  We found the museum curator. She only spoke Italian, but Lane spoke well enough to communicate our interest. As she spoke, her face grew animated and Lane gripped my arm.

  “What’s she saying?” I asked. “Is she telling you about the Michelangelo connection?”

  “Not exactly. She says it exists, but that’s not what she’s saying right now. Someone else was asking her about the history of Lazzaro’s paintings. Today. He’s still here in the museum.”

  Chapter 48

  The man at the museum could be our ghost.

  We found him in the reading room, which in this rustic museum meant a windowless closet in which two bookshelves, a desk, and a temperature-control thermostat had been installed.

  “Stefano?”

  He stood up from the desk and kissed my cheeks. I was glad that was his preferred mode of greeting, because my hands had suddenly become clammy and my whole body tensed. Stefano was in Italy.

  “Lane Peters,” I said, “meet my grad school advisor, Dr. Stefano Gopal.”

  “A pleasure,” Stefano said, extending his hand.

  Lane glanced sharply at me as he took Stefano’s hand.

  As the two men began shaking hands, my tense shoulder relaxed. I beamed at the two of them. Stefano was taller than Lane. Far taller than the ghost. I hadn’t thought about it before, but the ghost was a smaller man. Or a woman.

  Stefano couldn’t be the ghost.

  “Be nice,” I said softly to Lane. “It’s not him.”

  “I must be becoming an old man,” Stefano said. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

  “It was nothing,” I said.

  “Not only that,” Stefano said. “I missed your call while I was in the air, but I didn’t think I’d called you back yet to tell you I’d be here.” He frowned. “And you’re blurry.”

  “It’s not your vision. Your glasses are on top of your head. And your memory isn’t going either. We’re here looking into Lazzaro Allegri.”

  “Great minds. I wasn’t able to stop thinking about those sketches you showed me.”

  Stefano hadn’t been able to resist the lure of Lazzaro’s treasure either. It was a long trip from San Francisco to Bomarzo, which explained why he hadn’t called me back right away.

  “Have you been to the Park of Monsters yet?” I asked. “You got the translation wrong.”

  He shook his head. “I only arrived yesterday. But I did not mistranslate. Italian is my mother tongue.”

  Lane, who’d been silent as he sized up Stefano, picked up a book from the shelf and spoke a phrase of rapid Italian.

  “He’s a clever one,” Stefano said, leaning back on his heels and grinning at me before taking the book from Lane’s hands. “Testing my Italian, eh? You picked up a copy of a book on pagan traditions in Renaissance gardens, not an essay about witchcraft in classical architecture.”

  Lane acknowledged the successful test with a nod.

  “Then either Lazzaro purposefully misled us,” I said, “or more likely, the answer is in his missing fourth sketchbook.”

  “There’s another sketchbook?” Stefano asked.

  “Jaya,” Lane said sharply, speaking over Stefano.

  “He’s not our ghost,” I said. “I’m sure. He’s too tall and broad-shouldered.”

  “A ghost?” Stefano said.

  “We have a lot to catch up on,” I said. “Can we take you to dinner?”

  “I would love to, but I’m afraid I have a date.”

  “You work fast, Gopal.”

  “It’s the full head of hair.” He smoothed his think white waves. “Not so common when you get to be my age. But it’s not a problem for us to stay here a while to catch up.”

  “I thought the museum was closing soon,” Lane said.

  “It is. But the staff will be here for another hour. And Dafne, the curator, is my date.” He winked. “What have you kids discovered?”

  “No hidden grotto,” I said. “There’s no water near the Ogre. And I checked—there wasn’t a stream near there in the past either. That’s why we’re here, to see where following Lazzaro’s art will take us.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Stefano asked. “You introduced him, yes, but why bring him?”

  “He’s an art historian,” I said before Lane could reply.

  “One who’s missing the connection between Lazzaro and Michelangelo that you all seem to be making,” Lane said. “And that’s probably taking us down the wrong rabbit hole. I don’t see how it helps us find Lazzaro’s artwork.”

  “It might not,” Stefano said. “And I’m more interested in Lazzaro’s connection to Bahadur Shah’s court in India. And it gives us our answer about how his paintings survived after all this time.”

  “You have the answer?” Lane asked.

  Stefano held up a sheet of faded paper inside a protective clear cover. “A letter Lazzaro wrote to a relative.”

  “He tells them the location of his studio?”

  “No. In this letter he speaks of the humid climate of Gujarat and how he was impressed with local artists who adapted to the conditions of heat and moisture.”

  Lane nodded with awe. “He learned their techniques.”

  “How does that help us?” I asked.

  “It tells us,” Lane said, “that when we find his paintings, there might be something left of them after all.”

  Chapter 49

  We left Stefano to his date and drove back to Bomarzo. We both tried calling Ava and Mahilan, but neither was answering their phone. Lane agreed with my assumption that Ava wouldn’t hurt Mahilan.

  Then why did I feel so nervous?

  “We’re not going to make it back to the Park of Monsters in time,” I said, pointing at the setting sun. “It closes at sunset.”

  Instead of another visit to the stone monst
ers, we found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Nobody there appeared to speak English. That meant we were in for great local food, and also that we could speak freely. As usual, Lane asked for the table in the back corner and took the seat facing the door.

  “I’m ravenous,” I said.

  “I’ve never known you to not be ravenous. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

  “Just how good is your Italian?”

  “Definitely good enough to ask for the daily special. Extra spicy.”

  I smiled, but immediately felt guilty about letting myself enjoy a romantic dinner. “What am I going to do about Mahilan?”

  “I promise we’ll figure it out. I’m more concerned that there’s an unknown actor out there. The ghost isn’t Ava and it isn’t your professor.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re starting to believe it’s a real ghost.”

  “I don’t think it’s a real ghost. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I joined in far too quickly. If he’d heard that sound, and seen that shadow…My skin prickled as I recalled that night. The sound of thunder rumbling in the distance made me jump.

  “You okay, Jones?”

  “Fine. I just felt a little chill. I think there’s a draft.”

  A waiter swooped in with a plate of salt cod with raisins, pine nuts, and tomatoes, cooked in olive oil and onions. I had no idea what the dish was called, but it was delectable.

  “What I don’t understand,” Lane said, “is why someone wanted to use that old ghost story to stir up fear.”

  “It’s becoming more obvious to me that the ghost impersonator wants to keep us away from something. Isn’t that always the point in those old Scooby-Doo episodes?”

  Lane grinned at me and raised his glass of Chianti. “To Scooby-Doo.”

  After clinking glasses, I turned to look out the window. A light rain was falling against the front windows of the restaurant. “It’s raining,” I whispered.

  “You can have my jacket if you need it for the walk to the car.”