Telling Lies (6 page)

Seeing the two women standing there waiting, Tony bounded over, took each one by the arm, and walked them back toward his parents. He was beaming. “Mamma, Papa, I’d like to present to you my friends, Jenna Jones and Laurel Imperiole.” After a round of
piaceri,
hand shaking, and double cheek kissing—they were practically family after all—Signore Mariotti led the way into the house. As they made their way up the stone staircase, Jenna, who wasn’t big on meeting anyone’s parents, leaned in toward Laurel and whispered, “You’re really going to owe me big time for this.”

* * *

Even Jenna had to admit that the Mariottis couldn’t have been warmer or more welcoming. Both in their late fifties, they made a handsome couple. With his silver hair and steel blue eyes, Signore Mariotti demanded attention. Looking at Signora Mariotti, Laurel could see where Tony’s extraordinary looks came from. A tall blond woman dressed in a chic designer outfit, the Signora might have been a model herself at one time.

Signora Mariotti, or Franca, as she asked to be called, led Jenna and Laurel into the villa. As they walked through the rooms, Laurel found it hard to take it all in at once. Constructed of thick stone walls and wood beamed ceilings, the villa was filled with a perfect mix of contemporary pieces and Tuscan antiques. The effect was stunning.

Of course, there was also the artwork, a collection any museum would covet. Tony had told them that most of it was displayed in a separate gallery off the large and airy living room. But several Tiepolos, a DaVinci and a small Botticelli Madonna were scattered along the hallways throughout the house.

Laurel was as captivated by the small Madonna as she was by Botticelli’s work at the Uffizi. She had always loved the artist and the fact that he took his name from his elder brother, Giovanni, a pawnbroker, who was called
Il Botticello,
the little barrel. First apprenticed as a goldsmith, then later a pupil of the painter Fra Filippo Lippi, he spent his entire life in Florence, except for one memorable visit to Rome to paint the incredible wall frescoes in the Sistine Chapel.

Her fascination with the city’s hometown artist was what had brought Laurel to the museum and ultimately to the Mariottis and their lovely villa.

Looking around at the abundance of magnificent art it held, Laurel’s hopes soared. Surely the man who had collected it would be able to help her or would know someone who could.

They climbed a graceful, curving staircase to the second floor and Franca showed her to the bedroom that was to be hers. Laurel took one look at the beautifully carved angel motif on the headboard of the massive, oak bed that dominated the space and felt she might actually sleep well tonight.

After Tony, Jenna, and Laurel had unpacked and settled in, they met the Mariottis on the patio for a late lunch. Just looking at the food laid out on the wide plank farm table made Laurel’s mouth water. It was a delicious al fresco meal of smoked
cinghiale
, the local version of
prosciutto
, accompanied by chunks of fresh pecorino cheese, sun-ripened tomatoes, figs, and a
fatto di casa
, homemade foccacia bread. The meal was washed down with several bottles of Brunello, one of the region’s most celebrated wines. It was made even more palatable by the view of the Duomo’s golden dome below, twinkling in the late afternoon sun.

When the last drop of wine had been consumed, Signore Mariotti rose from the table and turned to Laurel. “Will you walk with me for a while? There is a special place I would like to show you,” he said in his almost perfect, Italian-accented English. He nodded at his wife, Tony, and Jenna. “Everyone, please excuse us.”

They crossed the patio and walked along a gravel path toward a grove of olive trees that bordered the property to the south, along the ridge on which the villa was located. As they moved past rows and rows of the silver-leafed trees, Laurel kept glancing at Signore Mariotti. Her mind was racing full throttle once again, with questions spinning around and around. Yet instinctively, she knew he would speak to her in his own time and his own way. After a few minutes, they arrived in front of a rusted iron gate, which Signore Mariotti opened to usher her through. They were on the crest of a ridge overlooking the ruins of a large amphitheater built into the hillside.

“
I wanted you to see this.” He swept his hand in front of him to encompass the ancient arena below.

Laurel surveyed the ruins. “It’s magnificent.” She gazed at the ancient stone and marble. “It’s very old, isn’t it?”

“
Yes.” Signore Mariotti lifted his hands and gestured toward the ruins. “It is the
Teatro Romano
, built in the first century BC and used by the Romans. I come here often to think.” He turned and faced Laurel. “It’s a good place for that, don’t you agree?”

Laurel gazed at this ancient spot and immediately understood its appeal. She could feel the whispers of the wisdom of the ages that had endured for all this time and surrounded it still. She touched his arm. “You’re right. It is a perfect place to think and to talk, very calming and serene.”

They walked down the worn steps and sat on a cool stone bench in the last row of the theater. Signore Mariotti was ready to hear her story now.

“
So, Antonio has told me what you need. Now, you tell me what you would like me to do.”

Laurel took a deep breath and began to speak. She explained what had happened over the last few days and her suspicion that Jeff Sargasso was alive and working in the art world in Florence. She told him about her meeting with Dottore Cappodello and her disagreement with Aaron. Signore Mariotti listened thoughtfully, nodding his head from time to time.

“
Tony, Antonio, told me that you had strong ties to the Florentine art scene, and, well, I thought …”

“
The man you describe is not familiar to me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But that is not to say that he does not exist. I believe the least we can do is make some inquiries.”

A spark of hope lit up Laurel’s face. Slowly, Signore Mariotti continued, “I will call my most trusted art dealer in the city, Caterina Toscana. She is also a close friend. Caterina truly knows everyone who is connected to the artists, the patrons, and many, many other dealers. Also, she is extremely discreet. Perhaps she will recognize the man from your description.”

“
Thank you. I’m very grateful.” Relief flooded through her. Then, remembering how Helen had counseled her to be extremely careful, Laurel’s voice filled with concern. “There’s one more thing. It could be dangerous for your friend. If Jeff Sargasso thinks someone is looking for him, who knows what he might do?”

A smile played across Signore Mariotti’s lips. “I wouldn’t worry about Caterina. In her business she deals with vipers every day. When they show their fangs and prepare to strike, Caterina knows how to strike back.”

Hammersmith Estate

Darien, Connecticut

Helen’s finger had barely left the bell when the door to the Hammersmith mansion swung open. A maid dressed in full uniform, including a starched white apron, scalloped collar, and cap, greeted her politely. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

Helen smiled at the woman and handed her a business card. “Yes. I’m Helen McCorkendale; I have an appointment with Mrs. Hammersmith.”

Stepping aside, the maid gestured for Helen to enter. “Please, come in.” As she did, Helen could barely keep from whistling out loud. If the entryway was any indication of what was to come, the Hammersmiths had created their own version of Versailles right here in Connecticut. Helen checked her appearance in the floor to ceiling gilt-edged mirrors that lined the walls. Standing straighter and smoothing down her clothes as if she were wearing a ball gown instead of her black Calvin Klein suit, she suppressed a grin. She almost expected Alexandra Cooper Hammersmith to show up in
panniers
,
like Marie Antoinette.

Helen followed the maid and her multiple reflections across a vast expanse of white and black marble to a doorway to the right of a sweeping, curved staircase. “Please wait in the library.” The woman opened the door. “Mrs. Hammersmith will be with you shortly.”

With a nod of thanks, Helen entered the room and instantly felt dwarfed by its fourteen-foot-high bookshelves filled with what looked to be first editions. Hearing the door close behind her, Helen bypassed the ornate Louis XIV couch and gilt-edged coffee table that lay in her path and moved toward the matching desk in front of French doors at the far end of the room. Why sit and wait when I could snoop and learn, she told herself. Its surface was covered with framed photos of the family, indulging in the leisure activities of the very rich and famous. Extreme skiing, yachting, mountain climbing, and polo were all well represented, with Hammersmith and his two boys smiling into the camera for posterity, white teeth gleaming like pearls on black velvet. There was also the requisite Richard Avedon portrait of Alexandra herself, her dark beauty subtly lit in a stunning black and white shot. In front of the photos was a stack of correspondence, neatly paper-clipped together. Helen flipped through the letters quickly. Most were requests for contributions, or notices of meetings for the various charities and community groups with which Alexandra Hammersmith was involved.

Helen moved away from the papers and let her hand rest on the desk’s polished surface. Gently caressing the inlaid wood, she slid her fingers around the top drawer’s pull, itching to slide the drawer open and peek inside. Just then, she heard the distinctive click of high heels on marble. She scooted quickly back to the couch and was seated as if she’d been waiting there the whole time when Mrs. Hammersmith entered the room.

Alexandra Hammersmith looked just as Laurel had described her: tall and elegant, glossy black hair pulled back in a simple twist. She was dressed in a gorgeous Chanel suit accented with a large diamond pin and earrings. Her face was striking—all planes and reflected light, captivating—until you reached her eyes, which were as hard and cold as those of a mountain lion staring down its prey.

Helen suppressed a shudder as she stood and extended her hand, pasting a bright smile on her face. “Helen McCorkendale. Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs. Hammersmith.”

“
I’m not sure that I can help you.” Her voice was cool and measured. “But please, sit down. Can I get you anything?” She gestured toward the maid who was waiting just inside the doorway.

“
No thank you. I’m fine.” Helen sat again and took out her notebook.

“
So, what exactly is it that you’re looking for, Ms. McCorkendale?” The study door softly closed behind the departing maid. “As I mentioned when you called, I had very little to do with my husband’s business and really didn’t know many of the employees who worked for him.”

I’ll just bet you didn’t
. Helen nodded and smiled. “Well, as I said, I am trying to verify some information for New York Fidelity Insurance. They need to confirm the details of a policy on a former employee of the firm, a Jeff Sargasso, who was unfortunately killed during the Nine Eleven attack.”

If Helen hadn’t been looking for it, she’d never have seen the flicker of pure rage then confusion that flashed across the other woman’s eyes at the mention of Sargasso’s name.

Helen glanced down at her notebook and kept speaking as if she hadn’t noticed the reaction. “I’m representing New York Fidelity in this matter. During a recent audit, they discovered that the policy hadn’t been paid out. As it involves quite a large sum of money, they’ve asked me to verify several details before issuing a check to the beneficiary.” Helen hoped that Alexandra Hammersmith wouldn’t realize that Fidelity should have the policy on a backup file. If she did, Helen would have to make up some story about computer disks gone missing.

Helen paused again, pretending to look for a name in her notes. “Monica Sargasso. It seems that she wasn’t aware that the policy existed.” Helen hoped her lies sounded convincing and put on her most professional demeanor.

“
In light of the fact that all of the firm’s records were destroyed that day, I was hoping that your husband might have kept duplicate records here.”

“
No,” she replied abruptly, her tone much colder now. “As I told you, I didn’t know the firm’s employees, and my husband was not in the habit of dealing with employee benefits. His staff handled that sort of thing. The firm’s records were stored in a vault in the Trade Center.” She stared at Helen meaningfully. “They were destroyed in the fire, as well.”

Helen snapped her notebook closed. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.” She rose. Gathering up her handbag, she made as if to leave.

Then, as if it had just occurred to her, she asked brightly, “Do you think your stepsons might be able to assist me? I understand that they worked at the firm, too. Perhaps they would remember Jeff Sargasso. I could contact them directly if that would help.”