The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 4
“What am I going to do with you, Amore Mio?”
“If you don’t mind missing our train, I could show you.”
Hadley sighed. Sometimes, Luca had a one-track mind. “Never mind. Let’s just go.”
They arrived at the Florence Santa Maria Novella train station. Luca parked and chained his motorcycle, then went into the station to buy them some bottled water and snacks for the train.
Hadley had already printed out their tickets to Munich.
They waited at the platform for the direct City Night Line Sleeper Train.
When the train arrived, they found their first-class compartment and stored their luggage.
“I never travel first-class,” Luca observed.
“The client is paying,” Hadley explained. “The train leaves shortly after ten p.m., and we arrive at the München Hauptbahnhof at about six-thirty tomorrow morning. It’s the quickest and most convenient route, but we’re going to miss out on some stunning scenery.”
“Will we be staying overnight in Munich? I hear they have some great beer.”
“I’m not planning to. We’re just going to cross this one item off the list. Rule it out. We’ll be at the state offices when they open, and then we should be on our way, unless we can gain access to Edda Göring’s house.”
“Edda Göring?”
“Hermann Göring’s daughter.”
“That monster had a daughter?”
“Yes, a wife and a daughter.”
And, according to the curator, a mistress.
Chapter Four
München (Munich), Germany
The following afternoon, Hadley pulled out the curator’s business card and tapped into her phone the private number she’d written on the back. The woman answered on the first ring.
“We’ve hit a dead end in Munich,” Hadley reported.
“I was afraid of that,” said the curator. “What happened?”
“You know how we assumed Göring had turned some of his looted jewelry, furniture, property, and artwork over to his wife or to his daughter Edda, who lived with him at his country estate, Carinhall.”
“Yes.”
“When she was baptized, Edda received several works of art as gifts, but she lost them in court battles. Over the years, she petitioned the Bavarian state government to return some of her father’s art collection but, ultimately, she was not successful. She did get to keep her jewelry.
“I checked with the state, and to their knowledge, Edda did not have possession of any of her father’s artwork when she passed away in Munich in December 2018. She lived alone, so they couldn’t confirm if there were any heirs. Did you know Hitler was her godfather?”
“Charming.”
“Apparently, she was very proud of her father to the end. And she associated with people of like-minded political views.”
“So, what’s your next step?”
“We’re going to Venice to check on the address you gave me of the woman you think may have been Göring’s mistress at one time.”
“Perfect. Keep me informed.”
“Of course.”
“Give my regards to Signore Domingo.”
Hadley crossed her fingers behind her back. “I certainly will.” She had become a consummate liar.
Hadley had already gone down the list of Signore Domingo’s contacts in Venice and, coincidentally, the address the curator had given and the address in the Signore’s contact book were the same. So the place or the person on the list was already on the Signore’s radar. Had he been to the address before? Met with anyone at the villa? And, if so, what reason did he have to go there?
Hadley had followed Rule Number One in Signore Domingo’s Pocket Guide—Don’t Overlook the Obvious. It made perfect sense, then, that the first, most obvious place to look was at Göring’s daughter. But her estate had already been probated and they had come up empty-handed. What they found could have been handled with a phone call, and it had turned out to be a wasted day, but better to be safe than sorry, leave no stone unturned. So it was on to Venice.
Chapter Five
München, Germany to Venezia (Venice), Italy
“We’re going to take the ICE—the Intercity-Express—Deutsche Bahn’s fastest train.”
“First class?”
“Yes,” Hadley confirmed. “It’s a pretty long train ride.”
“Will we stay overnight?”
“Yes, and if we find what we’re looking for, maybe several nights.”
“On the Grand Canal?”
“Of course. At the Gritti Palace.”
“One room or two?”
“One suite,” Hadley said. “We have to economize somewhere. And the client doesn’t know you’re here. Rather, she thinks I’m traveling with Signore Domingo. One suite is cheaper than two rooms. She asked if I minded sharing, and I said no.
“The Gritti Palace is a luxury hotel.”
“I’m aware.”
“I could get used to being a kept man.”
Hadley rolled her eyes.
Luca stored their bags, and Hadley placed her notes on the spacious desk between their seats. There was plenty of legroom. She spread out the files to review before they arrived in Venice. There was a photocopy of the study in question, the face of a model, definitely drawn by Botticelli. It had all his signature style, but it wasn’t the face of the goddess in The Birth of Venus.
“Why are we going to Venice?” Luca asked.
“Because that’s where the trail went cold.”
“What trail?”
“We know Hermann Göring, Hitler’s second-in-command, had possession of the painting at one time. The German government seized most of Göring’s collection. It says in this file folder that the main lodge at Carinhall had a large private art gallery—Göring’s own gigantic art museum—where thousands of stolen masterpieces Göring plundered from private collections and museums around Europe since 1939 were showcased.
“He worked hand in hand with an organization whose mission was to loot artwork from Jewish collections, libraries, and museums throughout Europe. Some twenty-six thousand railroad cars full of art treasures and other plundered items were sent to Germany from France. Göring visited Paris repeatedly to select items to be put on a special train to Carinhall and his other homes. His personal collection included thousands of pieces and was valued at two hundred million dollars. The Gestapo were arresting Jewish men all over Germany. Göring amassed a personal fortune by confiscating Jewish property when the victims were deported south—an almost certain death sentence—or forced to vacate their homes and flee the country, liquidating their assets, which included paintings, which were ‘bought’ at fire-sale prices. The lucky ones managed to escape to Palestine or any country that would take them.
“During World War Two, the Nazis looted six hundred thousand priceless paintings from displaced Jewish victims. But it was never enough. At least a hundred thousand of those pieces are still missing.
“Göring built massive underground bunkers,” Hadley continued. “He left Carinhall on April 20, 1945, to make an appearance at Hitler’s birthday, and then headed toward Berchtesgaden to attend to ‘important tasks’ awaiting him in southern Germany.
“Göring knew the Reich was imploding,” Hadley reported. “Before he left Carinhall, he gave a small unit of Luftwaffe soldiers the orders to blow up the estate as soon as the Red Army was in sight. The Soviets advanced on Carinhall on April 28, 1945—and the soldiers did their job blowing up Carinhall with the aid of more than eighty aircraft bombs.”
“Wouldn’t he have left the valuables to his wife or daughter?” Luca wondered.
“That would have been too obvious. And we verified that wasn’t the case in Munich.”
“Then why Venice?”
“While Göring was in Salzburg, the curator thinks he slipped away to Venice to deliver some paintings to his former mistress for safekeeping.”
“How can we find her?”
“The curator provided an address. Her name was Karrissa Montanari. She wouldn’t be alive today. We’ll have to see if she has any surviving relatives.”
Chapter Six
Venezia, Italy
Luca helped Hadley down from the train, then went back to retrieve their luggage.
The Venezia Santa Lucia Railway Station was packed. Luca led the way to the Ferrovia vaporetto landing stage immediately in front of the station on the banks of the Grand Canal and hailed a water taxi that would take them to the private pier of the iconic Grand Canal luxury hotel, the Gritti Palace. She was looking forward to staying at the fifteenth-century palazzo that had housed noble families and famous visitors since 1895. She had been to Venice before but never with Luca, and they were excited at the prospect of enjoying the city together as tourists while conducting their business.
Hadley savored the inspiring vistas of Venice as the water taxi traveled directly under the Rialto bridge. The sun-dappled deep blue-green water rippled in rich contrast to pale yellow of the Ca’ d’Oro, the golden house—in her opinion, the jewel of the Grand Canal. She took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of Luca in profile with the Palazzo Santa Sofia in the background.
Hadley’s command of the Italian language was crude, at best. Luca teased that she sounded like a child when speaking it, although he found it endearing, so she had no problem letting him take the lead with the desk clerk when they checked into the hotel.
Hadley couldn’t believe the luxurious room—the antiques, the Murano glass, the original artwork on the walls, and the magnificent view of Santa Maria delle Salute church on the Grand Canal. The bathroom was like something from an architectural magazine. She had never seen anything like it. They were, at most, a five-minute walk from La Fenice Opera House, which was across the street from the restaurant where they had reservations later that evening. The convenient vaporetto water bus stop at Santa Maria del Giglio offered inexpensive transportation anywhere in the city.
She wanted to explore La Serenissima—take a gondola down the lagoons of the city of love, visit the churches, which housed beautiful art, and, of course, the museums, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection (although her taste didn’t particularly run to modern), the Galleria dell’Accademia and the Doge’s Palace. And the food, well, it was a given that they’d sample all the culinary delights of Venice and people-watch at Piazza San Marco.
On Hadley’s first trip to Venice she had eaten a plateful of calamari fritti before she knew she was eating fried squid. Now, that was her favorite appetizer. But first, Luca was on the menu. They would eat after christening the king-size bed in their suite, which they proceeded to do.
In the end, they missed their dinner reservation. They were so tired from the long train ride they didn’t get up until ten the next morning.
“I’m hungry,” said Luca, his stomach growling, studying the hotel guide. “Why don’t we have breakfast at the Gritti Terrace waterfront?”
“You’re always hungry. We overslept. Table service would take too long. We can grab something on the way to our destination.”
Frowning, Luca showed the concierge the address, and the man at the desk pointed the way in Italian with all the accompanying expressive hand signals.
“It’s only a few minutes away,” Luca announced.
“Probably why the curator suggested this hotel,” Hadley replied.
“One night here cost about one week’s pay,” Luca said. “You have expensive tastes, Cara.”
“Good taste,” Hadley corrected. “I chose you, didn’t I?”
“Vero. But still you are, how do you say in America, high maintenance?”
Hadley laughed but didn’t deny it. She appreciated beautiful things, and she slowed her pace to study Luca’s backside, which she likened to a masterpiece.
Chapter Seven
After enjoying a light breakfast on the go and stopping along the way to look in the window of the galleries, at Hadley’s insistence, they arrived at the address the curator had provided.
“Nice house,” Luca observed. “Right on the Grand Canal. It’s as big as a palace.”
“It’s a villa,” Hadley said. “Villa Montanari. Let’s see if anyone’s at home.”
Hadley rang the doorbell.
She heard some footsteps on the other side of the door. The door opened and a beautiful young lady stood before them. She was perhaps in her early thirties, with long blonde hair, blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea, and a big smile.
Hadley offered her hand. “Hello, I’m Hadley Evans, and this is Luca Ferrari.”
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for the residence of Karrissa Montanari.”
“She was my grandmother. She passed away many years ago. My mother, Serena Spinelli, is also gone. There are just the two of us now—my brother Matteo and me. I’m Isabella.”
“Could we come in and talk to you?” Hadley asked.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“I’ve…we’ve…come about the painting.”
Isabella’s mouth opened in surprise. She clutched her hands. The welcoming smile disappeared from her face, and she was visibly shaking.
“The painting? My b-brother is not at home, but I’m expecting him soon. You cannot be here.”
“Why not?” Hadley asked, puzzled.
“Because—” She faltered, and then she lapsed into a string of Italian.
At a loss, Hadley looked at Luca for a translation.
“She says her brother would not like us to be here.”
Isabella’s face lost its color. She looked like she was about to faint, and when she did, Luca caught her up in his strong arms and carried her into the house, depositing her gently on an oversized couch.
“Hadley, she’s scared to death of something. Of her brother, I think.”
Hadley closed the door behind them.
Luca sat down beside the girl and took her hand. “Isabella, wake up, please,” he whispered in earnest.
Luca seemed in a trance, intent on reenacting a scene from Sleeping Beauty. He fanned Isabella’s pale face with a magazine he found on the end table and looked as if he might kiss her.
“Luca, for heaven’s sake, snap out of it,” Hadley scolded, thinking, the girl was stunning, no doubt about it—stunning enough to be a model—a painter’s model—or a movie star—but Luca had morphed into a knight in shining armor, a lap dog, eager to come to the rescue of the beautiful maiden. She needed to check her insecurities at the door. Wasn’t that one of the things she loved about him? Hadley walked into the spacious, chef-worthy kitchen with a view to die for, and wet her hands under the sink. She walked back to the living room and sprinkled a few drops on Isabella’s face. The girl gradually opened her eyes.
“Isabella!” Luca exclaimed. “You’re awake.”
Hadley rolled her eyes.
Isabella sat up, an anxious look on her face. “Matteo could be here any minute. You need to leave now.”
“What are you afraid of?” Luca asked.
“Matteo is very protective. He doesn’t tolerate strangers.”
Hadley sensed the girl’s fear. It coated the room like a fog. Was there an unnatural relationship between brother and sister?
“He is your brother,” Luca reasoned. “Surely, you’re not afraid of your own brother.”
“My twin,” Isabella confirmed. “Matteo has what you call a hot head.”
Hadley laughed. “You mean your brother is a hothead.”
“He can be disagreeable…and quite dangerous when the mood hits him. He’s very—strict.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Luca vowed.
Hadley shook her head. Luca seemed smitten. “Should I leave you two alone?”
“Can’t you see she’s terrified?” Luca whispered, still holding Isabella’s hand in his.
“Of her own brother?”
Hadley took the opportunity to press their case.
“Isabella, we’re not here to harm you. I’m from the Massimo Domingo Art Detective Agency in Florence. We’re trying to track down a Botticelli study, a sketch. Do you know anything about that?”
After a brief period of silence, she spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for you for many years.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come, but we must be quick.” She rose carefully from the couch, and they followed her upstairs down a long hallway to the last door on the right. She took a key from around her neck and unlocked the door. The room was dark, but when Isabella turned on the ceiling-mounted accent lights, Hadley fought to breathe.
“Oh, my,” she whispered. “It can’t be. My God, Luca.” Hadley felt lightheaded. She hadn’t eaten enough for breakfast. She began to lose consciousness. But she was not going to faint like that frail beauty Isabella or melt into a pool of helplessness… When she came to, she was lying in Luca’s arms.
He had carried her over to a wide velvet-lined bench in the middle of the room, a round room, a large room. Either the room was spinning or her head was spinning. And on the wall, on the stark white wall, right in front of her eyes, hung an ornately framed, breathtaking Botticelli. Not The Birth of Venus, not Primavera, but the rendition of another goddess on another life-size canvas. A medium tempera on canvas, with bright colors and traces of gold in the hair of the mythical, barely clothed Goddess Diana, twin sister of Apollo. The virgin goddess of childbirth and chastity, shrouded by moonlight in a tranquil woodland scene depicting wild animals and the hunt, surrounded by her sacred cypress trees, undisturbed by a lover. The face of the model in the study sent to The High Museum of Art in Atlanta.
It couldn’t be. Hadley got up slowly from the couch and walked up to the painting. It wasn’t signed. Of course, it wasn’t. Botticelli didn’t sign his paintings. The only piece he ever signed was Mystic Nativity, his last major work.
This painting, this masterpiece, was reminiscent of his most famous complementary paintings in the Uffizi gallery. But once Botticelli had fallen under the influence of the puritan fanatic friar, the Italian Christian preacher Girolamo Savonarola, moral dictator of Florence, his later works were religious in keeping with his newfound piety, not secular like this painting. Although Hadley still preferred his earlier works, she found beauty in the splendid symbolic imagery of his later paintings. Religious or secular, she would recognize his signature style anywhere.
