A Hidden Fire: Elemental Mysteries Book 1 (3 page)

He leaned his hip against the sturdy wooden table. 

“She was Dante’s muse, you know.”

“Of course I know.  That’s why I have the stupid name to begin with.  My dad was a Dante scholar.”  Beatrice looked down to straighten her own papers on the desk.  “Kind of a fanatic, really.”

He cocked his head and studied her.  “Oh?  Does he teach here?”

She paused and shook her head.  “No, he died ten years ago.  In Italy.”

His eyes darted back to the table, and he pulled the strap of his bag over his head as some faint memory tickled the back of his mind. 

“I’m sorry.  It’s none of my business.  Forgive my curiosity.”

She frowned.  “I’m not going to start weeping or anything, if you’re worried about that.  It was a long time ago.”

“Nevertheless, I apologize.  Good evening, Beatrice.”  He exited the room, taking care to make as little noise as possible as he slipped down the dark hallway. 

He entered the musty stairwell, taking a deep breath of the humid air to gauge who else was present.  Satisfied he was alone, he rapidly descended to the first floor and made his way through the still crowded student-study area.  As he approached the glass entrance, he caught a glimpse of Beatrice in the dark reflection as she stood near the elevator in the lobby, her mouth gaping as she stared at him.  Not turning for even a moment, he pushed his way into the dark night and strolled toward the parking lot adjacent to the library. 

When he reached it, he saw the slight flare of the cigarette as Caspar leaned against the black Mercedes sedan. 

“A good evening, Gio?”

Giovanni frowned at his old friend, flicking the cigarette out of Caspar’s mouth as he approached the door.  He stood in front of the man, looking down on him as he spoke. 

“I don’t like the cigarettes.  I thought you had given them up.”

Caspar looked up with a mischievous grin.  “If I’m only living for eighty years or so, I’m going to enjoy them.”

Giovanni opened his mouth as if to say something but then shook his head and slid into the dark interior of the late-model sedan.  Reaching into his messenger bag, he slid on a pair of leather gloves and crossed his arms while his friend got behind the wheel. 

“Any requests?”  Caspar fiddled with the stereo as Giovanni’s eyes scanned the dark parking lot. 

“Are the Bach fugues still in the changer?”

“Indeed they are.”

Caspar switched the CD player on.  In a few moments, the sedan was filled with the alternately lively and melancholy notes of the piano.  Giovanni sat motionless, listening with pleasure to the modern recording of one of his favorite pieces of music. 

“Mrs. Martin was not in the library this evening,” Giovanni said, his voice low and bearing more than its usual light accent. 

“Oh?  Everything all right?”

He shrugged.  “Look into it tomorrow.  Call and find out why she’s changed her hours.  If it is simply a family issue, then it is no concern of ours.”

“Of course.”

The car was silent as it turned toward Buffalo Bayou. 

“Inform me if it is anything other than that.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

A few moments later, they pulled up to the gate, and the wrought iron swung aside at their approach.  Giovanni pulled out his pen and used it to push down the button for the automatic window, enjoying the smooth rush of air into the vehicle as it made its way toward the house.  The grounds were suffused with the scent of clematis and roses that night, and the air smelled strongly of cut grass. 

“The gardeners came early,” he noted. 

Caspar nodded.  “They did.  We’re supposed to get rain tonight.”

“There is a new employee at the desk.”

“Is that so?”  Caspar stopped the car near the rear courtyard, shifting the car into park so his employer could exit the vehicle before he put it in the garage behind the house. 

“A girl.  A student.  Beatrice De Novo.  Check on her, as well.”

“Of course.  Anything in particular you want to know?”

He opened the door, reaching down for his leather bag before he stepped out.  “There’s something about the father.  He was killed ten years ago in Italy.  Let me know if anything jumps out at you.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Giovanni climbed out of the car, resting his hand lightly on the door frame.  Leaning down, he spoke again to his friend. 

“I’m swimming for a bit, and then I’ll be in the music room for the rest of the night.  I won’t need anything.  Good night.”

And with that, he stood up, nudged the car door closed, made his way across the courtyard with the bubbling fountain, and strode into the dark house. 

Caspar drove the car back to the garage, parked it, and sat in the driver’s seat, petting the steering wheel lightly. 

“He’s getting better, darling.  Only one little short on the door panel this time.  Not that he noticed, of course.”

Chuckling, he exited the vehicle, locked the garage, and made his way into the house, flipping on all the lights in the kitchen.  He thumbed through the mail again, separating the household bills from the extensive correspondence of his employer, before he shut all but one of the lights off again and made his way to the library on the second floor. 

Pouring himself a brandy, Caspar settled down with the first edition of
A Study in Scarlet
that Giovanni had given him for his sixtieth birthday.  Forgoing a fire, he opened the window facing the front garden and enjoyed the closeness of the night air, which smelled of the grass clippings the gardeners had raked that afternoon. 

An hour or so later, he paused when he heard the door to the music room close as Giovanni shut himself in.  Caspar wondered which instrument would catch his attention, praying it wasn’t one of the louder brasses.  He breathed out a sigh when he heard the first notes of the piano struck.  From Giovanni’s thoughtful mood earlier in the evening, he expected to hear Bach, so he was surprised to hear the strange Satie melody drift up from the first floor. 

“There’s something about the father.  He was killed ten years ago in Italy.”

Caspar frowned as he remembered the familiar light he’d seen in Giovanni’s eyes.  He hadn’t seen that light for almost five years.  Part of him had hoped to never see it again.

“What are you up to, Gio?” he muttered as he stared out the open window.

The gentle dissonance of the piano was unexpectedly disturbing to the man as he sat in his favorite chair.  A breeze came through the window, carrying the earthy smell of coming rain to his nose.  Caspar stood, walked to the window, and shut it just before fat drops began to fall. 

Chapter Two

Houston, Texas

September 2003

“
G
randma!  I’m going to be late for class.”

“One more shot,
Mariposa
, just let me…there.  All done.  The light was exactly right on that one.”

Isadora Alvarez De Novo set down the camera and smiled.  Beatrice stood up from the small table near the windows and plucked her bag from the floor. 

“Are you painting this afternoon?” she asked as she bent to kiss her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek. 

“Yes, yes.  I’ll be in the studio all day.  Will you be home for dinner?”

“Nope.  Wednesday, remember?  Night hours.”

“Oh, of course, handsome professor day!”

She snorted.  “He’s not a professor, Grandma.  He just has a doctorate and does research at the library.  I’m not sure what he is, to be honest.”

“Besides tall, dark, and handsome?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes.  “You mean fastidious, formal, and silent?”

“Oh, you say that, but he’s probably just shy.  Maybe it’s because he’s European.”

Beatrice shook her head before she filled her travel mug from the small coffee press her grandmother had prepared for her.  “I don’t know.  He is mysterious, that’s for sure.”

“He never talks to you?”

The young woman shrugged.  “Sure, a little.  He’s always polite.  I’ve tried making conversation, but he’s very…focused.  He always looks absorbed in his work.  But, I could swear I’ve felt him watching me more than once.”

Her grandmother smiled.  “You’re a beautiful girl, Beatrice.  He would have to be blind not to notice.”

Beatrice chuckled.  “I really don’t think it’s like that.  No, it’s not like he’s checking me out, more like he’s…observing.”

The old woman’s eyes widened.  “Could he be gay?  Oh, what a disappointment.  Though, maybe I could introduce him to Marta’s boy then—”

“Grandma!” she laughed.  “I have no idea.  It’s none of my business.  I should be embarrassed gossiping about patrons like this.  And I really have to go.”

“Fine, but you need to find some nice boy to have fun with.  The last one was so boring.”

Beatrice walked out the door.  “I’ll see what I can do,” she called out.  “Bye!”

She sped out the door and down the steps of the small house near Rice University where she had grown up with her grandparents.  Passing the oak tree that shaded the driveway, her eyes caught the dark, twisted grooves cut into the trunk close to forty years before. 

S.D.

Stephen De Novo.  She climbed into her small car.  Despite what she had claimed to the curious Dr. Vecchio, the hollow pang of his loss still marked her life.  Despite his busy schedule, she and her father had been very close.  With the passing of her grandfather, Beatrice and Isadora were all that was left of the tight-knit De Novo family.

She pulled into the university parking lot and grabbed the first spot she found, running to her first class as soon as her feet hit the ground. 

In fact, Beatrice felt like she ran all day, and by the time she got to the library at four o’clock, she was ready to collapse.  She took the cantankerous elevator up to the fifth floor and put her books in the small office she shared with her supervisor. 

“B?” she heard Charlotte call from the copy and photography room. 

“Yeah, Char, I’m here.  I’m sorry I’m late, it’s seems like—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Charlotte Martin said as she walked toward the reference desk.  The young woman switched on the computer at the desk and logged into the library’s system.  “It’s Wednesday today,” Charlotte said with a grin. 

“Yes, it is.”

“Wednesday means night hours for you.”

“No!”  Beatrice gasped.  “I’d totally forgotten about that.”

“Liar.”  Charlotte paused for effect.  “So, have you had any luck with the mysterious Dr. Vecchio?”

“What?  Why is everyone asking about him today?  Did you and my grandma have a meeting?”

Charlotte laughed.  “No!  I’m just curious.  You’ve seen him for what—three weeks now?  I’m curious what you think.  He’s quite the mystery around the library, you know.”

“Librarians have vivid imaginations and far too much time on their hands.  I think he’s just a historian or something.”

“A really hot,
Italian
historian with a cute—but not indecipherable—accent,” Charlotte said as she wiggled her eyebrows.  “And you’re a gorgeous, single almost-librarian.  I see possibilities.”

“You and my grandmother are far too interested in my love life, or lack thereof.  But thanks for calling me ‘gorgeous.’”

“You are,” Charlotte sighed.  “You have the most perfect skin.  I kind of hate you.”

“And you have the perfect husband and two perfect children, so I think you win.  Is Jeff enjoying having you home every night?”

Charlotte smiled and nodded.  “Yes, all joking aside, thanks for taking the evening hours.  It makes a huge difference with the boys involved in so many activities now.”

“No problem.  I can always use the cash.”

“Speaking of cash, did I tell you someone very wealthy and very generous just donated a couple of letters from the Italian Renaissance to the library?  We should be getting them in the next couple of weeks.”

“Letters?  What are they?”

Charlotte shrugged.  “Not sure.  I haven’t seen them.  I guess they’re a couple letters from some Florentine poet to a friend who was a philosopher.  Late fifteenth century, supposedly very well-preserved.  I should remember the names, but I don’t.  They were in some private collection, from what I hear.  Honestly, I have no idea why the university is getting them.”

“Huh.”  Beatrice frowned.  “We have hardly anything from that period.  Most of the Italian stuff we have is late medieval.”

“I know,” Charlotte shrugged again, “but they were donated, so no one’s going to complain.”

“When do they get here?”

“A few weeks, maybe closer to a month or so.”  Charlotte laughed.  “I thought Christiansen was going to piss his pants, he was so excited when he told me.”

“And thank you for that mental image,” she snorted.  “I’m going to go to check the dehumidifiers in the stacks.  I’ll see you in a bit.”

Beatrice was still shaking her head when she entered the manuscript room, chuckling at her playful supervisor.  Charlotte Martin’s enthusiasm for books and information was one of the reasons the young woman had decided to pursue a master’s degree in library science.  Far from stuffy, Beatrice had discovered that most libraries were small hotbeds of gossip and personal intrigue.  Intrigue that she enjoyed observing but also tried to avoid by hiding in her own small department. 

She checked the moisture readings in the stacks, tracking and resetting the meter for the next twenty-four hours.  She walked to the center of the room to empty the plastic container from the dehumidifier that pulled excess water from the thick, South Texas air, so it wouldn’t damage the delicate residents of the manuscript room. 

After completing her duties in back, she pulled one of her favorite books from the shelves and opened it, poring over the vivid medieval illuminations in a German devotional.  After a few minutes, she tore herself away to go help Charlotte with some filing before she settled at the reference desk for the evening and began to work on a paper for one of her classes. 

At five-thirty, Charlotte waved good-bye, and by seven o’clock, Beatrice heard the familiar steps of Dr. Giovanni Vecchio—mysterious Ph.D., translator of Tibetan texts, and all around hot-piece-of-gossip-inducing-ass—enter the reading room. 

“Good evening, Miss De Novo.  How are you tonight?”

She heard his soft accent as he approached and saved the file she was working on before she looked up with a smile.  He was wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and a grey jacket that evening.  His face was angular, handsome in a way that reminded her of one of the photographs in her art history textbook.  His dark, curly hair and green eyes were set off by a pale complexion that seemed out of place on someone with a Mediterranean background.

Beatrice decided that no one should be that good looking—especially if they were smart.  It simply put the rest of the population at a disadvantage. 

“Fine, thanks.  I’m fine.”  She sighed almost imperceptibly, and straightened her black skirt as she stood.  “The Tibetan manuscript again?”

He flashed a smile and nodded.  “Yes, thank you.”

Beatrice went back to retrieve what she had begun to think of as “his” manuscript and walked out to Giovanni’s table in the far corner of the small room.  Setting it down, she noticed he already had his pencils, notebooks, and notes from the week before laid out on the table.  He was nothing, if not organized and well-prepared. 

“Do you need the spiel?” she asked as she handed him his silk gloves. 

He smirked.  “Not unless you are required to give it every time I’m here.”

“I’ve seen you here a few weeks now.  If you won’t tell, I won’t.”

“Your flagrant disregard of protocol will be our secret, Beatrice,” he said with a wink that set her heart racing.  She hated her name, but maybe she didn’t hate it quite as much when it rolled off his tongue with that sexy accent.

She just smiled and tried to breathe normally.  “I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”  He nodded and slipped on the gloves to pick up the book.  As always, she noticed the seemingly incongruent features which only added to the mystery he presented. 

His fingers were long and graceful, reminding her more of an artist than a scholar, but the body beneath his casually professional wardrobe looked like that of a trained athlete.  He appeared fastidious in his appearance, but his hair always seemed just a bit too long.  No matter how he was dressed, she always smiled when she saw his expression, his concentrated frown and preoccupied gaze were one hundred percent academic. 

Suppressing a snicker, she went back to writing her paper. 

They both worked quietly for another hour.  When she finished her homework, she looked in her bag and realized she had forgotten the paperback she was reading that morning. 

“Damn,” she whispered. 

He looked up from his work.  “What?”

She frowned and looked up, surprised he had heard.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  It’s nothing.  Just forgot my book at home.”

She thought she heard him snort a little. 

“What?”

He couldn’t contain the small chuckle.  “You’re in a
library
.”

“What?”  She couldn’t help but smile.  “Oh, I know, but I was reading that one.  Besides, I can’t exactly go wander around in the fiction section looking for a new book.  I’m working.”

“True.”

“Unless you want to finish up early so I can go do that.”

He frowned and looked at the clock on the wall.  “Do you really need me to?”

Beatrice laughed out loud.  “No!  Of course not, I’m just teasing.  I don’t expect you to cut your research time short for me.”  She chuckled quietly as she turned to the computer to check her e-mail and look at her stock report online.  She took careful note of a few investments she had left from her father’s estate and emailed herself a reminder to move one of them when she got back home. 

She glanced at the man copying the Tibetan book and realized he almost looked annoyed.  She cleared her throat.  “Thanks, though…for offering.  That was nice.”

He cocked one eyebrow at her.  “Far be it from me to keep a woman from her book.  That could become dangerous.”

She snorted and shook her head a little.  Giovanni smiled and returned to his transcription.  They both worked in silence for a while longer before she heard him put down his pencil. 

“What was it?”

“What?”  Beatrice tore her eyes from the computer monitor. 

“The book.  The one you forgot?”

She frowned.  “Oh…uh,
Bonfire of the Vanities
.  Tom Wolfe.”

His lips twitched when he heard the title.  “Oh.”

“Have you read it?”

His smile almost looked rueful as he turned back to his work.  “No.”

“It’s good.  It’s set in New York.  I’ve never been, have you?”

He nodded as he took out a blank sheet of paper and started a new page of careful notes.  “I have.  It’s very…fast.”

“Fast?”

“Yes, I prefer the pace of Southern cities.”

“I can see that.”

“Can you?”

She looked up to see Giovanni staring, his blue-green eyes almost burning her with the intensity of their focus. 

“I—I think so,” she said, glancing down to avoid his gaze. 

He stared for another minute before she noticed him look back to his notes.