The Last Enemy (11 page)

“After Anna’s death, we found that she had left the school to Umberto and Livia jointly. Umberto offered to give Livia half the yearly profits, but she insisted that we pay her half its market value, the equivalent of 500,000 euros. We did, but we had to mortgage the house. Anna was not herself at the end,” she said, her voice beginning to quiver. “At one point, she made a will leaving everything to Camillo, my son, who had already been dead some fifteen years. She was always scribbling wills before she died. Most of them were barely legible and none of them were legal. Of course, in the case of the school, Livia was her daughter and the will was properly executed under Italian law . . . but she’d told me so often that I was her true daughter.” Her voice faded on her last words and Piero had to learn forward to hear.

She sat silent for a full minute, looking at Cenni without seeing him. Then like a scratched record that’s moved beyond its imperfection, she continued as before, her voice measured and clear. “Perhaps now you can appreciate that Umberto’s dislike of his niece was not just willful and unkind. It was a natural progression of his feelings for a sister who had deserted him and his mother when she was needed most.” She stopped abruptly, and Cenni suspected that she had just now realized that she’d said more than he’d asked for—perhaps more than was prudent. He decided not to push her further on the question of Anna and the school.

“And your daughter Artemisia . . . how did she get along with her cousin? We understand from your maid that she and Rita had an argument just yesterday concerning one of your husband’s manuscripts.”

Her response was immediate and electric, “Sheer nonsense! Why should Artemisia and Rita have a discussion regarding one of Umberto’s manuscripts? Neither of them had anything to do with the library. I doubt that Rita ever entered the library since her arrival in June. It’s kept locked except when Umberto is working in there. He and I are the only ones with the combination. I find it somewhat naive, Dottore, that you would credit anything Lucia tells you about us. She’s an inveterate gossip, and a malicious one.” The latter comment, so out of character with her previous gentle ironies, elicited a surprised look from Cenni and a shrug and a wan smile from the countess in return. “Servants are so difficult to find these days.”

“That would appear to be true, that she’s a gossip,” Cenni responded uncritically, sensing that he still had her confidence, not wanting to lose it. “To my original question then, your daughter and Rita, were they friends?”

“No, not friends exactly. There’s an eight-year difference in age. I doubt Artemisia even remembered Rita, who visited us last when she was sixteen. Her mother sent her for the summer so she could improve her Italian. There’s certainly no doubt that Rita admired my daughter. She’d even started to dress like her. She’s been buying her clothes in Florence and Rome, from the same boutiques where Artemisia shops. She actually purchased the same cape and in the same color,” she added caustically.

“And your granddaughter?”

“Paola lives in Rome. She’s studying to be an art restorer. She was home briefly at Christmas and is staying at home now for a few weeks to rest. She had a very bad case of influenza this winter, and her doctor suggested that she take it easy for a bit. But there’s more than twenty years difference in age between Rita and Paola, hardly the basis for a friendship, Dottore! But since you plan to speak to my daughter and granddaughter yourself, perhaps you should address your questions to them, directly,” she responded, this time openly checking her wristwatch.

“Only one or two more questions and we’re finished. I understand from your cook that your niece stopped eating with the family a while ago. Was there an argument between your niece and any member of the family?”

“No, certainly not! She stopped eating with us right after the New Year at about the same time she asked for the key to her room. Apparently, she’d discovered that Lucia was reading her diary. I told her to write in English instead of Italian, and not make such a fuss, but she was adamant, insisting that she’d clean her own room. As for taking her meals separately, I had no objection. In truth, I welcomed it. I knew Umberto would prefer it. She had started seeing a man who lives in Assisi, an American, I believe. His name is John Williams. Lucia told me—and anyone else who would listen—that Rita had dinner with him almost every night in Il Duomo. One of Lucia’s friends is a waitress there. I met him only once, so there’s really nothing further I can tell you. Are we getting to the last question?” she asked anxiously, clearly intent on finishing the interview.

“The last few! I’m intrigued by certain information given to me by the Assisi police concerning the woman who provides flowers for the family vault, a Signora Orlic. I was told that she’s had some differences with your niece, that Signora Orlic was blackmailing a woman who’d worked for her and that your niece found this out and reported it to the police. Yet, I was also told that Signora Orlic still works for you. That’s rather curious don’t you think!”

“No, I don’t! Really, Dottore, you should stop accepting gossip as gospel! My husband and I were extraordinarily displeased by what Rita did to Sophie. It’s just one more example of her propensity to meddle and cause trouble. Sophie Orlic took care of my mother during the last year of her life. She had been a physician’s assistant in Croatia but didn’t have a license to work here. We needed full-time care for Anna, and Sophie seemed to be the right person. We sponsored her for a
soggiorno
, gave her a place to live, paid her a salary. In return, she took exceptional care of my mother-in-law and helped around the house. She still comes in twice a month to help with the rough cleaning. When Anna died, Umberto and I were both concerned about Sophie. Sophie told me of an idea that she had to start a flower business. I gave her a small loan, which she repaid, on time and with interest!

“Of course, we knew about Rita’s interference and our sympathies were entirely with Sophie. I don’t believe it’s blackmail to pay someone’s travel expenses to Italy, house and feed the person, and then expect a return on one’s money. We have complete confidence in Sophie. A good many of her clients were recommended by me. I sincerely hope you’re not going to bother her with this business,” she added, breathless and flushed. She rose from her chair, saying, “If you’re finished with me, I really have a great deal to do. I need to arrange for my niece’s funeral, including a mass and a priest to say it.” She started to move toward the door without waiting for his acknowledgment that the interview was over.

“Just one clarification and Inspector Tonni will escort you back to the sitting room.”

She turned and looked at him impatiently.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I understand from your husband that you have not been informed. It seems that your niece was raped before . . .”

Her reaction was painful to watch.

“Raped! But . . . it’s not possi . . .” She gasped tremulously, the blood rapidly draining from her face as she slid silently to the floor.

It took five minutes to revive Amelia Casati and another ten minutes to calm her husband. Cenni resisted the urge to apologize, which he knew was born of an innate courtesy that had nothing to do with any regrets he might have had over his decision to tell Amelia Casati about the possibility of her niece’s rape. He had wanted to see her reaction. He had, and was satisfied that if someone had faked the rape of Rita Minelli, it had not been Amelia Casati.

He had also learned something of the family dynamic. Piero had gone to the sitting room to enlist the aid of Umberto Casati in reviving his wife. The count, who had returned with his granddaughter and Lucia trailing close behind, had spent the next ten minutes railing at Cenni and Piero over their gross mistreatment of his wife. Paola had spent that same ten minutes chafing her grandmother’s wrists and making soothing sounds of comfort while Lucia had looked on, interested, but providing no help whatsoever. Artemisia Casati had remained in the sitting room.

16

She was now the darling of the Italian art world and had been toasted with champagne at numerous receptions, one a few months ago in Perugia, at the Galleria Nazionale, where it was rumored she was to be its next director. Cenni’s grandmother— a devoted gossip—kept up on these things. His mother and grandmother, who were both lifelong patrons of the museum, had in one of their rare moments of unanimity dragged him along to the reception, insisting that they had to have a male escort. His mother had gone because she always did if the event were likely to make the society pages. And besides, as she told her son, Giovanni Baglione had written Orazio Gentileschi’s biography in 1642. A Baglioni before her marriage, Cenni’s mother always claimed kinship with any other Baglioni so long as he was notable. Alex knew it would serve no purpose to point out the difference in spelling, so he didn’t.

His grandmother had gone for other reasons. She was a champion of feminist causes and a great admirer of Gentileschi’s painting,
Judith Slaying Holofernes
, which was on temporary display at the Galleria. But he knew it was also for the champagne. Her doctor had restricted her to one bottle a week. “A mere thimbleful for a woman with my thirst for the bubbly,” his grandmother had said.

Cenni and his grandmother had skipped the reception line. He had no desire to see or be seen and she preferred to enjoy the parade of the beau monde from a comfortable seat, her shoes kicked discreetly out of sight. The Galleria Nazionale, although it lacked the cachet of the Borghese in Rome or the Uffizi in Florence, was his favorite museum. Despite its impressive collection of Sienese and Umbrian Old Masters, it still had the charm and pace of a provincial museum. Visitors could wander through its many rooms, in any order they wished, or revisit the same painting time and again without a guard urging them ever onward. And Cenni had yet to encounter one of those seemingly ubiquitous art tours permitted at the Uffizi, where an overloud and rushed guide focused on a single painting, or a detail of a painting, in a room filled with art treasures:

“This room, as you can see, is dominated by Caravaggio. Please note the painting on your right,
The Adolescent Bacchus
. Excuse me, sir, can you step aside so my group can view the painting. It’s generally believed that the young Sicilian who posed for this highly sensual work was Caravaggio’s live-in lover. If you will kindly focus your attention on the bottom right of the painting you can see the subject’s dirty fingernails and the wormeaten rotten fruit. This is an excellent example of the naturalism favored by the artist. Now, in the next room, we will focus on Rembrandt’s
Self-Portrait as a Young Man
. But if any of you wish to look at the other paintings in this room, you may take a minute to do so. There’s an interesting Venus by Carracci on the opposite wall, but please don’t tarry. Our appointment to visit Michelangelo’s
David at the Accademia
is in ten minutes.”

And the group would sweep out behind their guide, knocking down the old and infirm in their hurry not to miss the next view of dirty fingernails.

At Artemisia Casati’s reception four months ago, Cenni had tarried in front of the Uffizi
Judith
, one of the more violent interpretations of the biblical Judith decapitating the Assyrian general Holofernes. Too much blood, he’d thought. He was wondering what Batori would make of the bloodstains on the left side of the sheet. Surely they were too far in front for a neck wound of that type? He had laughed aloud when he realized that he was conducting a postmortem on Holofernes. A voice behind him, cool and detached, had interrupted his forensic musings. “That’s an unusual reaction to that painting. Most men turn away in horror.” When he looked to see who had spoken, he was disconcerted to find the guest of honor, Artemisia Casati, standing directly behind him. He had confessed sheepishly to his thoughts on bloodstains and they had laughed together.

She had talked of Artemisia Gentileschi as a feminist icon while he had silently admired her namesake’s dramatic good looks. She had a long-limbed, loose-jointed body of the type one usually associates with Americans fed on whole grains and hormone-laden beef, but the face and style were definitely Italian. Prominent cheekbones, strong almost masculine jaw, wide-spaced black eyes set beneath dramatically arched brows, a long Roman nose, full sensual lips painted a glistening crimson, and all enhanced by a marmoreal complexion and cropped raven-black hair, which looked, he thought, as though it had been cut with nail scissors, no doubt by the best hairdresser in Rome. He was no expert on women’s clothing either, but he was sure that her ankle-length gunmetal gray dress, of soft clingy wool, was a designer’s model and had cost a fortune. When she had finished discussing Gentileschi, he had confessed that he had not yet read her book but promised that he would as soon as his grandmother had finished it. They had parted on friendly terms with a promise by him to attend a private reception in Assisi the following week. He had forgotten all about it, perhaps deliberately! She was a study in artifice, somewhat intimidating in her cool detachment, and not really his type. But he had read her book.