Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 805 & 806, September/October 2008

Murder at Montefugoni by Margaret Maron

© 2008 by Margaret Maron

Death’s Half Acre, the 14th book in Margaret Maron’s acclaimed Deborah Knott series, will appear in bookstores around the time this issue mails to subscribers. But while Knott fans have been able to follow her in a new book almost every year for more than a decade, the same is not true for fans of the earlier Maron character Sigrid Harald. The followimg brings Sigrid to life, and centerstage, again.

“...so I ask you again, Miss Harald. Who wanted him dead?”

“And I tell you again, Inspector Giordano. I don’t know. I only met these people last evening.”

The weekend began innocuously enough when Elliott Buntrock, one of New York’s most respected art curators, shifted his chair to get out of the hot Italian sun and said, “It’ll be fun.” Seated in a sidewalk cafe a few quiet streets away from the Ponte Vecchio where tourists swarmed like mindless ants, he offered his companion a crostino thickly smeared with chopped black olives and said, “I’ll rent a car. We could be at the castle forty minutes after we check out of our hotel.”

The slender, dark-haired woman who sat across the table from him accepted the appetizer, but declined the suggestion. “I’m not a castle person, Elliott. Why can’t we stay here in Florence?”

“Florence is hot and crowded and all the real Florentines are up in the hills. It’s Tuscany, Sigrid. I bet you’ve never seen the Tuscan countryside.”

“We’re not here to look at landscapes.” She picked dubiously at the wild-boar salad he had persuaded her to order. “We came to retrieve Nauman’s paintings from that gallery.”

“And their attorneys say we can’t have them until Monday, so why not spend the weekend where it’s cool and relaxing? I promised an old friend who’s leading a tour of art enthusiasts that I’d speak to his group and he’s comping me to an apartment at the castle. It would be churlish not to go. Besides,” he said, knowing one of the reasons for her edgy impatience, “the place has its own swimming pool. A real pool, Sigrid, and Jim says it’s never crowded.”

And with good reason, Sigrid Harald thought, stroking arm over arm through the cool clear water a few hours later. More a short-term rental lodge than a hotel, the Castello di Montefugoni was built atop a steep hill and its views of trees and vineyards and more castles on distant hills were as spectacular as Elliott had promised. The self-service apartment that Dr. Jim Olson, Buntrock’s friend, had booked for them was airy and spacious: two large bedrooms and an even larger dining/sitting room with a small galley and furnishings that were comfortably shabby.

Unfortunately, there were no elevators and the pool was down three long flights of ancient stone steps. All very well to learn that Dante and Boccaccio had climbed these very same steps, it still took a fairly determined swimmer to make the trek. Despite the endless stairs, though, Sigrid would have gladly walked them twice over to get to this pool. Swimming was her one reliable stress-reliever and these last few months had pushed her almost to the breaking point.

Two years ago, she had been an NYPD homicide detective leading an uncomplicated life. Now, thanks to a hasty will written by her lover shortly before he died in a car wreck, she owned an estate worth millions. She first met Oscar Nauman when one of his colleagues was murdered, and the end of her investigation marked the beginning of their affair. She had vaguely known that he was one of the giants of the art world, but modern art left her cold. It was the man himself who had attracted her, not his reputation, and she had been devastated by his death.

Almost as devastating was the realization that she could not continue to work for the NYPD and manage Nauman’s estate, too, a decision made somewhat easier by a new boss who clearly resented her and never missed a chance to let her know it.

Professionally, she had been confident of her skills in solving tricky homicides, but she was unnerved to discover that collectors, gallery owners, and museum directors could be every bit as cutthroat as any hardened con men. Witness the Florentine gallery that had taken two of Nauman’s paintings on consignment before his death and now claimed the authority to buy them outright at the original price although they had since doubled in value.

It was Nauman’s friend Elliott Buntrock who had argued that the only way to get the pictures back was to come over and take physical possession of them herself. In this age of instant communication, she was infuriated that it should take a face-to-face meeting to handle the situation, but here in the water, her tension began to drain away. Swimming had gotten her through the worst of her grief after Nauman’s death. It would get her through settling his complicated estate and disposing of his pictures. In giving herself up to the water, she could let her mind float blankly, aware of nothing except the water itself.

When fully relaxed, she climbed from the pool and sluiced off at a shower almost hidden in a stone wall thickly covered in ivy. As she wrapped a towel around her wet body, an attractive blonde passed, gave her a friendly nod, and continued on to one of the deck chairs, where she dropped her towel and sunglasses and stood for a moment on the edge of the deep end. She appeared to be in her early forties and her well-toned body showed firm muscles.

“Is it cold?” she asked.

“Not really. Not once you’re in,” Sigrid said.

The woman executed a shallow dive that took her halfway across the pool’s width and there was a happy grin on her face when her head broke the surface. “Wonderful!”

“Hope I’m not interrupting?”

Sigrid glanced around to see a middle-aged man in red plaid swim trunks with a towel draped around his neck. His smile included both of them, but his eyes were on the woman in the water.

“I was just leaving,” Sigrid said and walked down the long grassy allée. As she neared the terrace steps, a voice called down to her.

Looking up, she saw Elliott Buntrock leaning over the balustrade of the terrace above. Interviewers often used long-legged bird images to describe his looks; and from this angle, his bony face and angular limbs did give him the appearance of a huge, if decidedly exotic, bird. He stood with his arms outstretched on either side, his hands on the ledge, so that the front of his linen jacket swung wide like stork wings.

“Do you see a grotto down there?” he asked.

Directly beneath the terrace and out of his sight was a semicircular alcove built into the wall. A chain across the front discouraged viewers from entering. Inside, the walls seemed to be made of gray mud daubed on by the trowel-load. Life-size statues of young men stood in niches around the walls and a colorful fresco brightened the domed ceiling.

“I guess you’d call it a grotto,” she said doubtfully.

“Are there frogs?”

The late-afternoon sun had cast deep shadows across the terraced gardens, but at the back of the alcove, she could make out a Grecian-looking goddess who seemed to be imploring heaven for a favor. At her feet were two young children and a figure that had the legs of a man and the body of a frog. More frog faces peered back at her from around the edges.

“Several,” she answered, but by then she heard his sandals clacking on the stone steps as he came down to join her.

He carried a digital camera and his homely face lit up as he took in the details of the grotto.

“Wonderful!” he murmured happily and folded his sticklike body in half to duck under the chain, whereupon he immediately began taking pictures.

Sigrid did not bother to point out that this was probably forbidden. Instead, she asked, “What’s the symbolism?”

“Metamorphosis. The goddess is changing them into frogs.”

“Why?”

“Go read your Ovid for the long version,” he said as he clicked away. “Short version? Leto came to a village spring with her children and asked for a drink of water, but the oafish villagers — those louts there—” He gestured to the statues of young men who menaced the goddess with rocks and sticks. “—refused and then stomped around to muddy the water so that she couldn’t drink. At that point, she decided that if they thought mud was so funny, then they could live in it the rest of their lives and she started turning them into frogs. See the terror in that guy’s face? He’s just realized what’s in store for him.”

He shot more pictures, then slipped back under the chain and smiled at her. “Good swim?”

“Very,” she said with an answering smile and her gray eyes shone almost silver in this light.

Despite high cheekbones and a thin nose, she was not conventionally beautiful and there was nothing sexy about her slender body, yet Buntrock no longer wondered why Oscar Nauman had been so intrigued. Her neck was too long, her mouth too wide, her chin too strong, and her smiles were rare. But when she did smile, it left no doubt as to why his friend had fallen in love with her.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I told Jim Olson we’d join them for drinks this evening.”

Earlier, and she might have balked. So soon after her swim, she merely said, “What time?”

When they arrived shortly before six, five of Dr. Olson’s seven-member group had already gathered in the apartment shared by Hugh Jensen and Darryl Jensen, two wealthy cousins who could have been brothers. Both were small, pudgy men of late middle-age with thinning gray hair, and both were at least six inches shorter than Sigrid, who, at five-ten, immediately found a chair and sat down so that she would not tower over them. Not that Darryl Jensen would have minded. He seemed like the effervescent, sweet-tempered yang to his cousin Hugh’s waspish and more volatile yin.

He poured her a glass of wine while Hugh Jensen made testy remarks about the lack of window screens. His face was blotched with angry red mosquito bites and he acted as if Dr. Olson were responsible for each and every one.

Jim Olson was a lanky, white-haired six-footer with a broad Midwestern face that made him look more like a dairy farmer than a professor of art history. He looked down at Hugh Jensen now with the same look of puzzlement that a kindly mastiff might give a yipping dachshund.

“Anybody have some insect repellant they could share with Hugh?”

Sigrid had caught a whiff of Off from the two gray-haired women seated nearby, but both shook their heads.

“Sorry, Hugh,” he said, then introduced the two newcomers: “Elliott Buntrock, who’ll be speaking to us tomorrow about the Severini frescoes, and his friend Sigrid Harald.”

He rattled off the names of the others, and Sigrid learned that the man who had spoken to her at the swimming pool was Gene Gallins. As he and the two cousins began to discuss the region’s red wines with Buntrock and Olson, the older of the two women smiled at Sigrid. “You probably didn’t catch our names. I’m Barbara Rosser. And this is my business partner, Alexa Hayne.”

“Partner?”

“Custom framing and art supplies,” said Alexa, who was a few years younger and at least three inches shorter. “We own a little shop near Jim’s university.”

The little shop must do quite well, Sigrid thought. Their linen shirts and slacks clearly came from an upscale boutique, and she was willing to bet that the wide gold cuff Alexa wore and the emerald earrings that sparkled on Barbara’s ears were genuine.

Abruptly, Sigrid realized that she was still acting like a police detective sizing up suspects at a murder scene. That was all in the past now, she told herself bleakly. She had never been good at the small talk of social gatherings, but this was to be her world now: art and art lovers. Nevertheless she lowered her voice and said, “The mosquitoes don’t bother you?”

The intensity of Alexa Hayne’s reply startled her. “Odious little man! If he were dying of thirst, I wouldn’t give him a teaspoon of warm spit.”

“Now, Alexa,” said her partner. “Every tour we’ve ever taken has had its Hugh Jensens.”

“Not rolled into one economy-size package.”

“True,” Barbara Rosser agreed. “Have you ever toured with a group, Sigrid?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re young yet. Jim’s are always small and intimate. Most of us either know each other or have mutual friends. At our age, it’s nice not to have to worry about hotels or restaurants and he builds in flexibility so that you can putter around a town on your own. If you’re dying to see a particular church or museum that isn’t on the itinerary, Jim’ll make sure you do. This is our third trip with him.”

“Spain last year, Germany the year before,” said Alexa. “When there are more than nine of us, his son Eric comes along to drive a second van, but our group is smaller than usual this year.”

“And fewer people seems to magnify any little personality quirks,” said Barbara.

“Pompous, know-it-all rudeness is not a ‘little personality quirk,’ ” Alexa snapped.

Barbara rolled her eyes, but Alexa was already citing chapter and verse of Hugh Jensen’s offenses: If leaving for a day trip in the van, he would be the last one out of the hotel. If meeting for the return drive, he would always come strolling up at least fifteen minutes later than the time agreed upon.

“And he makes sure he gets the best seat in the van, while Barbara—” Alexa Hayne’s black eyes glistened as she looked at her friend.

The older woman put a restraining hand on her partner’s arm. “Alexa babies me. My back does give me a little trouble, but because we’re always on time, we wind up climbing into the back of the van while Hugh helps himself to a seat in the middle row where it’s easier to get in and out.”

“So why not take those seats yourselves?” Sigrid asked.

“Because then he moans about how bumpy it is back there and how the air conditioner doesn’t reach to the back, or else he makes Jim stop the van so he can take pictures and whoever’s sitting in the middle row next to the door has to move to let him out. It’s easier to let him have his way.”

Barbara gave a rueful smile. “I know, I know. Giving in like that only reinforces his selfishness, but Italy was always my favorite country. We’re here to relax and enjoy its beauty and we don’t have the time or the energy to stage a confrontation.”

“In Venice, though, we missed our one chance at the Tiepolo ceiling because Hugh got us thoroughly lost,” Alexa said. “We knew the museum would close for renovations the day after we arrived, but there would have been plenty of time that first afternoon except that he insisted on finding some mask-maker’s studio that was supposed to be on the way.”

“And we can’t say a word because it so distresses Darryl, and he’s such a sweetie. Everything Hugh isn’t.”

“Ah, there you are!” cried the object of their dislike as the last two members of the group entered carrying lumpy packages that they deposited with others on a table by the door. “Better late than never.”

“You’re one to talk,” snapped Sabra Lyle, the athletic swimmer who had dived into the pool as Sigrid was leaving it.

To Sigrid’s surprise, the man behind her was Taylor Williams, an old friend of her mother’s and a professional photographer who had published several well-received coffee-table books on lesser-known artists.

“Sigrid!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here? How’s your mom? Adjusting to married life nicely, I hope?”

Before they could begin to catch up, Hugh offered a tour of the apartment. Part of Montefugoni’s charm was that no two apartments were alike. Some had frescoed walls, others had allegorical pictures on the ceiling. Some windows opened onto the rather plain courtyard, others overlooked the hills. The first bedroom was Hugh’s, a beautiful large space with a good view. After all that Barbara and Alexa had told her, Sigrid was not surprised to see that the bedroom with only one window and no view belonged to Darryl, who confessed that he hadn’t noticed any mosquitoes on that side. (“They never bite me, anyhow.”) Two steps up from the common room was a smaller sitting area where more steps led to a locked wooden door, behind which were the Severini frescoes that Elliott was to lecture on tomorrow morning.

“They’re marvelous!” Hugh pronounced with proprietary pride, as if he had been extra clever in getting this particular apartment.

Jim Olson frowned. “You’ve already seen them?”

“Of course! I persuaded the girl at the reception desk to unlock them this afternoon and let me peek in. The colors are as fresh as if they’d been painted yesterday instead of in the ’thirties.”

“ ’Twenties,” Olson said, annoyed that Jensen had jumped the gun on the rest of the group. “They were painted in the nineteen-twenties.”

“Whenever.” He dismissed the correction with a wave of his pudgy fingers. “Is it show-and-tell time?”

The others followed him out to the table in the common room and began to unwrap their packages. Several had shopped for masks at the last minute before leaving Venice and this was their first chance to share and compare.

Gene Gallins unwrapped a glistening beauty, a colorful jester with little golden bells that tinkled when he laid it on the table.

Sabra Lyle’s mask was a large leaf enameled in full autumn colors and highlighted with touches of bronze and gold. “I bought these, too,” she said, laying three more leaf masks beside the first one. They were identical in shape, but had been left unpainted. “They’ll be perfect for my office!”

“Sabra’s a landscape designer,” Jim told the two newcomers. “She did the gardens at Wexton Grove.”

Sigrid smiled politely, having no idea where or what Wexton Grove was; but Elliott looked impressed. Sabra Lyle’s suntanned face and sturdy limbs suggested a hands-on gardener, a woman who hefted bags of peat moss or dug up rocks and did whatever else went into designing a garden.

“I’ll find someone to paint them for the other three seasons,” she said.

“Maybe Gallins can do that for you, too,” Hugh Jensen suggested with a knowing leer.

Sabra ignored him, but Sigrid saw Gene Gallins’s face darken briefly.

Hastily, Alexa said, “What’s yours, Darryl?”

“A zanni.” The comical half-mask began with a harlequin’s checkerboard forehead and cheeks and ended in a long pointed nose that stuck straight out at least eight inches. Darryl gave his cousin a sidelong grin full of mischief. “In the classical Commedia dell’arte, he’s the clown that plays tricks on the main clown.”

“How on earth will you get it home without breaking that nose?” someone asked.

“There’s a shipping service in Florence,” said Olson. “They’ll wrap and pack and guarantee safe delivery.”

“Mine will need extra insurance,” Hugh bragged, setting a canvas tote bag on the table. When he reached inside, though, he came up with only a handful of empty bubble wrap. He turned to his cousin in puzzlement. “Darryl? Did you do something with my mask?”

“Nope. Where did you leave it?”

“In my room.” He turned wrathfully to Jim Olson. “Dammit, Jim! You said it was safe to leave the doors unlocked and now it’s gone! My three-hundred euro gilded devil mask.”

“How appropriate,” Alexa murmured in Sigrid’s ear.

“I demand that you question all the maids.”

“There aren’t any maids,” Olson reminded him. “Everything’s self-service, remember? No maids or bellmen wandering through the stairwells and halls. Besides, the office closed at six-thirty.”

“Then all the rooms must be searched at once.”

Jaws began to tighten as the others realized he was accusing one of them of theft.

“Calm down, Hugh,” Olson said. “Maybe you left it on the van. We’ll check when we go to dinner.”

Although Jensen continued to grumble, conversation became more general and Taylor Williams cornered Sigrid to talk about his latest project. She rather liked the man, but he did tend to go on and on. Just as she was beginning to wonder if she could catch Elliott’s eye and signal the need for rescue, Jim Olson stood and tapped his watch. “Time to go, people. Our dinner reservation’s for seven. If you want me to ship your masks, leave them here and I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Okay, Darryl?”

“Fine with me.” He looked at Hugh, who shrugged and said, “We’ll leave the door unlocked, but we’re not responsible if anything else goes missing.”

As everyone drifted toward the stairs, Olson told Buntrock, “Sorry I can’t invite you to join us, but we had to reserve three weeks ago.”

“That’s okay. We’re dining here. We heard that the castle chef cooks a mean risotto con tartufi.”

This was news to Sigrid, but welcome news. After so much chitchat, she was glad to skip an elaborate dinner with the others.

“But stop in for a nightcap later,” Buntrock said. “I’ve picked up a nice Brunello.”

It was ten-thirty before Olson tapped at their half-open door. Sigrid glanced up from the book she was reading and Elliott immediately got up to uncork the wine.

“Sorry to be so late,” said Olson, “but I had to find some sleeping pills for Hugh and persuade Alexa to share some of her Off with him. Maybe if he gets a good night’s sleep, he’ll be in a better mood.”

“I take it his mask wasn’t in the van?” Elliott said sympathetically.

Olson shook his head. “If I’d known he was such a bastard to travel with, I would never have let him come on this trip, but Darryl asked and it never occurred to me that two cousins could be so different.”

As Elliott poured their wine, Sigrid said, “What do they do for a living?”

“Nothing: They were trust-fund kids. Their grandmother Nancy was a Reedy before she married their grandfather.”

“Reedy?” Elliott’s head swung around to peer at him like a curious stork. “As in the Reedy Foundation? Or the Corbett Reedy Investment Group?”

“Corbett Reedy was her father, yes. Even after she set up the Reedy Foundation, there was still enough money to leave her grandsons very generous trust funds. Darryl collects prints and Hugh sits on the boards of various art-related institutions.”

He took a deep swallow of wine. “You know how that works, Elliott. Being a director gives any little prick like Jensen the power to step on a lot of toes. Take Gene Gallins. Granted he’s not another Grant Wood or Andrew Wyeth, but he has talent and he has taste. Yet he didn’t get a show at one of the museums in our area because Hugh convinced them that Gene’s nothing more than a Sunday painter.”

“Gene Gallins and Sabra Lyle,” Sigrid said. “Are they sleeping together?”

Jim promptly strangled on his wine and Elliott jumped up to pound on his back.

“How on earth do you know that?” Olson gasped when he could speak again.

She shrugged. “The way he looked at her in the pool. And his reaction to something Jensen said tonight.”

“They’ve been very discreet.” Jim coughed again and wiped his eyes with the napkin she handed him. “I make it a point not to notice things like that, but Sabra did pay the extra supplement so that she wouldn’t have to share a room.”

“So why does Alexa hate him so much?” Sigrid persisted. “Surely it’s not just because he’s never on time or hogs the best seat on the van.”

Olson looked to Buntrock for help.

“Sorry, Jim,” Elliott said. “What can I say? She used to be a cop.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Olson said. “But it’s not something I can discuss and I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t speculate about it to the others.”

Sigrid regarded him a long moment, then nodded acquiescence.

Their talk soon turned to reminiscences of bygone years and people Sigrid had never met: “You saw where The Loaded Brush ran a long interview with Lou Brown?” and “What’s happening with Tang Cai?”

“He lucked into a group show at the Penelope Gallery this fall,” Elliott said. Sigrid tried to look interested as they discussed whether the Chinese artist’s visa would expire before he could establish a name for himself in the States.

“What about that kid who did those intelligent lithographs? Lynn Palmour? What’s she up to these days?”

Olson looked down into his glass and gently swirled the wine. “She took an overdose last month.”

“What? Why?”

“Remember how emotionally fragile she was? Her only brother was killed in a car crash over the holidays and then the one-woman show she was promised fell through.”

Elliott shook his head. “What a waste. She was a damn fine artist with a lot of potential.”

“Yeah,” Olson said and held out his glass for a refill.

As their talk turned to tomorrow’s schedule, Sigrid quit trying to suppress her yawns and announced that she was going to bed.

Even with unscreened windows, Sigrid slept unmolested by mosquitoes and emerged from her bedroom rested and refreshed next day. After an early swim in the deserted pool, she had intended to go straight back to the apartment, but the morning was so beautiful and the surroundings so peaceful that she paused in front of the grotto and looked out over the Tuscan landscape. In the far distance, a tractor labored up and down the steep hillside through row after row of grapevines. Nearer to the castle grounds were groves of greenish gray trees that Elliott had identified as olives. High overhead, swallows darted in and out of mud nests beneath the eaves of the castle and lacy mounds of red and pink geraniums tumbled over the edge of the terrace above.

Despite the emotional undercurrents swirling around last night, it was nothing to do with her and she was glad that Elliott had insisted on their coming. The pool was worth putting up with a few social niceties. Today was Friday. She would go hear him speak about those frescoes, then take herself back to the pool or hole up in their apartment with a book. On Monday they would return to Florence, retrieve the paintings, and, with a little luck, be back on a plane to New York by Tuesday.

As she passed the grotto, something caught her eye. She stopped short, looked closer, and almost laughed out loud. She had missed it coming down, but now she saw that one of the statues wore a gilded devil mask and leered at Leto with golden malevolence.

Smiling to herself, Sigrid climbed the steps and crossed the loggia to her stairwell, where the aroma of bacon drifted down to meet her.

“Just in time,” Elliott said, turning from the stovetop. “Come see how orange these egg yolks are! Laid by real free-range chickens, eating real grass.”

Suddenly ravenous, Sigrid dutifully admired them, then quickly changed into dry clothes. Elliott filled their plates with buttered toast, Italian bacon, and scrambled eggs, and as they ate, she told him about seeing Hugh Jensen’s mask on one of the grotto statues. “Wonder who put it there?”

“My money’s on Darryl. He had the best chance, and Jim says he has a quirky sense of humor.”

Sigrid smiled, remembering the mischievous grin Darryl had given Hugh while explaining what the zanni mask signified.

At ten o’clock, Sigrid and Elliott met Jim Olson in the large reception office off the main loggia. Several mismatched office desks had been arranged in a reverse L and castle business was conducted from the long side. The short side held a second computer for guests who could not bear to go too long without Internet access. The small staff doubled as needed around the castle and the attractive young woman on duty that morning was casually dressed in serviceable jeans and tank top. She plucked a large key from one of the pigeonholes on the rack behind her. It was five or six inches long and made of iron.

Olson hefted it in his hand. “It always feels weird to hold a key that the Sitwells must have used.”

“Sitwells?” asked Sigrid, who owned a large collection of poetry. “Edith Sitwell?”

“Didn’t you know?” said Elliott. “Her father bought the castle around nineteen ten. He’s the one who commissioned the Severini frescoes. There are stories that her brothers wanted Picasso, but the old man had met and liked Severini and since it was his money...”

A few minutes later, he was repeating the same words to the group who had gathered in the Jensen apartment. Sigrid noticed that Hugh’s diavolo mask was now on the table by the entrance hall, although nothing was said about it while Elliott finished his introductory remarks. “If Picasso had taken the commission, it would have no doubt been a cubist marvel, but by nineteen twenty-two, Severini had abandoned futurism, so now we get this!”

He turned the iron key in the plain wooden door and threw it open with a dramatic flourish. As the others crowded in behind him, their admiration for the bright and colorful masked harlequins that covered the walls of the small gallery quickly changed to laughter.

At the end of the room, Darryl Jensen lounged on the floor, his back against the wall. He wore the long-nosed mask he had bought in Venice and his dark blue pajamas that echoed the pantaloons in the frescoes.

“How funny, Darryl!” said Alexa Hayne. “You look as if you could just reach up and take some fruit from that painted bowl.”

“You idiot,” Hugh said, as if annoyed that his cousin had thought of the joke first. “Here, let me give you a hand up.”

He reached for Darryl’s hand, but there was no response.

“Darryl? Quit clowning.”

“What’s wrong?” someone cried as he slumped over. “Is he hurt?”

Sigrid pushed past the babbling art lovers and quickly knelt to feel for the man’s pulse.

“Everybody out,” she said. “Now!”

There was such authority in her voice that even Hugh obeyed.

“Is he dead?” Jim Olson asked, his face ashen.

“Yes,” she said succinctly.

To Sigrid’s bemusement, three separate police authorities responded to the call. First came the municipal officers, followed by the state and provincial.

It was almost one o’clock before they sorted out who had jurisdiction and Sigrid was summoned to a room off the castle’s courtyard.

“My apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Harald.” The big man in a rumpled brown suit spoke with a distinct English accent. “I’m Inspector Giordano of the state police.” He introduced his associates, invited her to be seated at the table he was using as a desk, and looked at her doubtfully. “I’m told you’re a police detective yourself? In New York?”

“I resigned several months ago, Inspector.”

“But you did handle homicides?”

“Yes.”

He gave a slight smile of approval. “Not one to waste words, are you? Good. Please describe the events you witnessed this morning.”

When she had finished telling him everything she had seen, including the devil mask on one of the grotto statues, he said, “Who killed him, Miss Harald?”

Sigrid shook her head. “I met all these people for the first time last evening.”

“Nevertheless...?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve formed no opinions.”

“No?”

“No,” she said firmly and asked a question of her own. “Was he killed in Hugh’s bed?”

She saw him struggle with the decision as to whether she should be told anything, then he shrugged, as if realizing that she probably knew almost as much as he, or soon would.

“Yes. We found signs on the pillowcase that he was smothered facedown while his arms were held immobile by the covers.”

“So no DNA under his fingernails,” Sigrid murmured, almost to herself. “Hugh blames himself. He made Darryl switch rooms because of the mosquitoes. You do realize that Hugh believes he was the killer’s target?”

“So he has told us,” the inspector said drily. “Several times. With increasing agitation. He’s demanding that we let him leave before the killer succeeds. You observed these people last night. Which do you think was the intended victim?”

“Probably Hugh. We met in their apartment before dinner last evening and were given a tour of the place, so everyone knew which bedroom was which. Darryl was well liked, while Hugh irritated nearly everyone. But how did the killer get Darryl’s body into the Severini gallery? I saw three other doors. One opens onto a blank wall, the others were locked with thumb bolts from the inside. The receptionist says there’s only one key and the office is locked at six-thirty, well before everyone left for dinner.”

“Did she also say that she found the key hanging on the doorknob of the office when she returned this morning?”

“The killer took it before the office was locked last night and she didn’t notice?”

“So she says.”

Sigrid nodded thoughtfully. “When I checked my e-mail this morning, I was left alone in the office for several minutes. The receptionist seems to run all over the castle. I assume the others were in and out of the office yesterday?”

“All except Mrs. Barbara Rosser. She doesn’t use the Internet, but—” He consulted the notes he had taken earlier. “—Mrs. Lyle, Mrs. Hayne, and Mr. Gallins were there when Mr. Hugh Jensen asked to see the frescoes. They would have seen where the key was kept and could have mentioned it to the others. And Dr. Olson, of course, has stayed here before. It’s a very distinctive key. Easy to spot. So I ask you again, Miss Harald. Who wanted Hugh Jensen dead?”

Again, Sigrid told him she could not say. Giordano let out a frustrated breath and gave a dismissive nod of his head. “Very well. Thank you for your help.”

“I wish I could have helped you more,” she said, suddenly homesick for the familiar routine of police work that had been taken from her.

The big rumpled man behind the desk cocked his head as if understanding her hesitation. “Was it easy to walk away from the job?”

“No.”

“You have no official standing here,” he warned her.

“I know.”

“But you will ask questions?”

“Probably.”

“And you will listen?”

“I usually do.”

“Bene,” he said, sounding Italian for the first time.

Trying to form a logical theory, Sigrid crossed the courtyard and almost bumped into Dr. Olson.

“Could I talk to you a minute?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Sunlight silvered his white hair as he followed her out to a table on the terrace where they could talk undisturbed, almost hidden by several huge tubs of red geraniums. Unfamiliar birds twittered in the tall cypress trees and the golden Tuscan light only underlined how far from New York and her past life she now was.

“Sorry,” Olson said, smothering a yawn. “Too much wine last night and now all this...”

Sigrid came straight to the point. “Is Barbara Rosser dying?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “How the hell—? Are you psychic or something?”

“No. Just an ex-cop. I listen to people. Not only to what they say, but what they don’t say. Alexa almost blurted it out to me last night, but Barbara stopped her. Then Barbara herself spoke of how Italy was always her favorite country. Was, not is. As if she never expected to come back.”

Olson sighed. “You’re right. This is her farewell trip. She decided to see Italy one last time rather than do another round of chemo and radiation. She didn’t want anyone else to know and made me promise that I wouldn’t treat her any differently from the rest. But I swear to God, I wanted to knock Hugh Jensen into the middle of next week when he made her miss seeing that Tiepolo ceiling in Venice.”

“I imagine Alexa wanted to herself,” Sigrid said and sat back to watch the wheels begin to turn.

“No,” he said at last. “Darryl was a small man but Alexa’s a smaller woman. She couldn’t have carried him up those stairs.”

“But Sabra Lyle could. If Hugh was a threat to her marriage...”

“Sabra’s divorced. Gene’s the married one. He sells an occasional picture, but the only way he can afford to paint full time is because of his wife’s money.”

“I thought Sabra was a successful landscape designer.”

“She is. That doesn’t mean she wants to support him.” He gave a wry smile. “So you’re not infallible, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sabra’s toured with me before. Gallins is merely this tour’s flavor of the month. There was someone different last year, there’ll be someone different next year. Adds a little spice to her vacations. You look shocked.”

Amused, Sigrid shook her head. “No. Surprised maybe, but not shocked. All the same, Gallins does have a grudge against Hugh for blackballing him with a museum, right?”

“A grudge, yes. But enough to kill? I don’t think so.”

“What about Taylor Williams? He have any run-ins with Hugh?”

“No more than any of the others. Hugh may have made some slighting remarks about how lightweight coffee-table books can be, but that’s all I’ve heard.” He stood up wearily. “I have to make some more phone calls. The others are having lunch downstairs if you want to join them.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m not hungry.”

She watched him disappear down the sunlit stone staircase, then sat and thought about all the things she had seen, all she had heard, and all she had been told. Olson said he had given Hugh two sleeping pills. Assuming Hugh actually took them, anyone could have killed Darryl without waking his cousin.

She looked at her watch. Italian time was five or six hours ahead of New York so her attorney would not be at the office this early, but her e-mail would be waiting when he arrived.

As afternoon shadows deepened across the ancient stone courtyard, Inspector Giordano called them together again. “We have now questioned everyone in the castle,” he told them in his incongruous English accent.

Nervous glances were exchanged and a querulous Hugh Jensen broke the silence. “My God, man! Don’t play Hercule Poirot with us. If you know who killed Darryl, spit it out!”

“Mrs. Hayne,” Giordano said gently. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Alexa Hayne’s eyes were frightened. “N-No, I don’t think so.”

“Two young Australian women were in the lower garden last evening. They saw you and Mr. Darryl Jensen.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Very well, Inspector. Yes, I helped Darryl put Hugh’s mask on that statue.”

“What?” said Hugh.

“It was a joke, Hugh. He said you were acting just like those selfish men who wouldn’t let the goddess drink — muddying the trip like they were muddying the water. He couldn’t understand why you were behaving so badly.”

Jensen started to speak, then clamped his mouth shut and sat back, shaking his head.

“Mr. Jensen, do any of these people benefit by your death?”

“Benefit?” he asked bitterly. “Other than getting rid of the person who seems to have wrecked this tour? I can’t believe Darryl hated me that much.”

“He didn’t hate you,” Alexa said. “He just thought you were too full of yourself and he wanted to tease you a little.”

“You and your cousin,” said Giordano. “You say that you both had trusts from your grandmother. Who inherits if you die?”

“As I told you this morning, the Reedy Foundation gets it. Same for Darryl. After our deaths, the trusts dissolve and the principal returns to the foundation.” He glared at the others. “No, Inspector. Whoever wants me dead, it’s not for my money.”

“No? What about your cousin’s money?” After the long hot June day, Giordano’s brown suit was a mass of untidy wrinkles. He drank from a liter-sized bottle of cold water, then unfolded a sheet of typescript. “Miss Harald received this message from her attorney. According to his discreet inquiries, the terms of your grandmother’s trust are not quite as you would have me believe.”

“What?” He glared at both of them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The terms are exactly as I told you.”

“After your deaths, the principal does indeed revert to the foundation,” Giordano said. “Both your deaths. Whoever survives gets the interest from both trusts until his death. With him gone—”

As Giordano’s words sank in, Hugh bristled indignantly. “Me? You’re accusing me? You’re crazy! We were like brothers.” His angry denials dwindled into sudden sobs. “Brothers,” he whimpered.

“Jacob and Esau were brothers, yet Jacob stole Esau’s inheritance,” Giordano said implacably. “You had the motive. You had the opportunity.” He stood up and towered over the small man. “I must ask you to come with us, Mr. Jensen.”

Protesting his innocence, Hugh Jensen was led away. While the others dispersed in stunned dismay, Jim Olson left to call the American consulate in Florence and Sigrid walked across the courtyard with Inspector Giordano. At the castle’s gate, he paused to thank her for her help.

“You would have reached the same conclusion without me,” Sigrid said.

“Probably,” he agreed complacently. “His was the only real motive. He was the one who conveniently gave you a tour of the apartment and then made his cousin change bedrooms. He stole the key earlier and he had the whole night to set that stage.”

“Why now, though?” she wondered aloud.

“Who knows the logic of a killer? I myself think that he began to plan this murder when Darryl bought that cheap mask in Venice. It could have been the final straw in a camel-load of resentment.”

“The zanni?”

He nodded. “From the Commedia dell’arte. Everyone says Darryl Jensen had a trickster sense of humor. Maybe that mask was a way of telling his cousin that he might be the subordinate clown, but that he — Hugh Jensen — was the greater clown and bigger fool.” Inspector Giordano took her hand. “So! La commedia é finita,” he said; and even though she did not speak Italian, Sigrid needed no translation.

Swallows and bats swooped and soared together in the cool evening air as twilight settled across the beautiful Tuscan landscape and the first bright stars pricked through the dark blue sky overhead. The others had gone downstairs to the castle’s outdoor restaurant, but Elliott and Sigrid remained seated with their wine at one of the terrace tables to keep Jim Olson company.

“Poor Darryl,” Olson said again. It had been a long tiring day and he looked almost haggard with fatigue. “Will Hugh be convicted, do you think?”

Sigrid turned the stem of her wineglass in her slender fingers. “Realistically?” she said at last. “I seriously doubt it. The evidence is all circumstantial and the Reedy Foundation will surely come to his rescue with extradition papers and clever attorneys.”

“So he not only gets off,” Olson said bleakly, “he gets to profit by Darryl’s death.”

“He may get off in court,” Sigrid said, turning her wineglass more slowly now, “but I imagine public opinion will find him guilty.”

“She’s right,” said Elliott. “He’ll be asked to resign from all the boards he sits on now, and decent people will shun him. So don’t worry, Jim. He’ll be punished for his sins.”

Sigrid carefully set her glass atop the wrought-iron table. “Unless, of course, you decide to confess.”

Both men stared at her.

“He’s stayed here before, Elliott. He knows where the key is kept and how the office is often left unattended. He knew where to place the body that he thought was Hugh’s before he realized he’d killed the wrong cousin.”

Elliott’s protest died in his throat when he saw the guilt and shame on his friend’s face. “You, Jim? Why?”

“The woman you asked about last night,” Sigrid told him. “The suicide.”

“Lynn Palmour?” Elliott was shocked. “Was it Jensen that blocked her one-man show?”

“At a time when she was still shattered by her brother’s death.” Olson’s voice was heavy with grief. “Then he told her he’d get it reinstated if she’d have sex with him. She was like the daughter I never had and that bastard killed her, Elliott. He killed that sweet kid as surely as if he’d given her the overdose himself. I could say he killed Darryl, too, making him change bedrooms like that, but...” He buried his head in his hands. “God help me.”

Distressed, Elliott turned to Sigrid.

She pushed back her chair and stood up. Without a confession, there was no more evidence against Olson than there was against Jensen. Less, even. And as Inspector Giordano had reminded her, she had no official standing here.

“Sigrid?”

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “I’m not a cop anymore, remember? Whatever happens is up to him,” she said. “Not me.”