The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 7
Her mother hesitated. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
“You know you can’t keep a secret. What’s going on?”
“Charles is on his way to Florence. In fact, his plane has probably just landed.”
“Why is he coming here now, when he refused to visit me for a whole year?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag. What is he doing in Florence?”
“He’s going to propose.”
Hadley drew in a deep breath.
“I hoped he would propose before I left for Florence, but he didn’t. He didn’t want me to go, but he wouldn’t make a commitment. And he hasn’t bothered to visit me all this time because he’s mad that I left. So what’s the sudden rush?”
“I might have told him about Luca.”
“You might have told him?”
“I said it was just a fling, nothing serious. But I think he just wants to stake his claim.”
“Mother, this isn’t a gold rush.”
This is bad, Hadley thought. Very bad.
“He bought a ring. He asked your father and me for our blessing, and he showed us the stone. It’s beautiful.”
Hadley started to hyperventilate.
“Mother, I can’t think about this now. I wish you wouldn’t have interfered, or at least you could have warned me.”
“I’m not interfering. Are you planning to stay in Italy the rest of your life and live with that Italian? You need to come home and settle down. Charles dropped out of law school.”
“I heard about that.”
“He’s miserable without you.”
“Are you blaming me because he dropped out of law school?”
“Nobody’s blaming anyone. It’s just that he’s been wandering around the campus bookstore looking for a Master’s degree major. He started with the A’s and he’s rejected Accounting, Biology, Chemistry and Dental Sciences. He’s landed on the E’s. I think he’s planning to major in Economics.”
“Well I wish him luck, but I’m exactly where I want to be. If he was so in love with me, he’d have made the effort to be with me.”
“Well, he’s making the effort now.”
“I’ve moved on,” Hadley announced.
“With your Italian lover?”
Well, yes, maybe.
“With my life. I love living in Italy. But Mother, I have to go now. I’ll call you when I get back to Florence.”
Hadley felt the mother of all headaches coming on. What was Rule Number Six of Massimo’s Pocket Guide? Don’t Panic In A Crisis. This predicament certainly qualified as a crisis. And she was definitely panicking. What if something was wrong with Gerda? She’d been like a second mother to Hadley. If anything should happen to her, well, she couldn’t go there right now. The curator was on her way to the villa, and Hadley wasn’t prepared. She was doubting herself and her decision to take on this case alone. Luca was missing in action, and she had to face Matteo, masquerading as mini-Göring, by herself. And King Charles was in Florence. She was a circus juggler trying to keep all the balls in the air and failing spectacularly. All her secrets and lies were beginning to catch up with her.
Chapter Thirteen
Hadley walked along the Grand Canal, breathing in the familiar sights and sounds. Venice life was beginning to come alive—the noises of vaporetto traffic, the insistent sound of church bells, the lapping of water against the docks, the appearance of residents and tourists about to start their day in this fabulous city, one of her favorites in the country.
She was well on her way to violating Massimo’s Rule Number Five. She had arrived at the villa without a plan. She couldn’t just knock on the door. Matteo might be home. Where was Luca? Where was Massimo? And where was the elusive Uffizi curator whose name she didn’t even know?
Luca materialized behind her, and she jumped.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Where did you go this morning?”
“Out for a walk, to do some thinking.”
Hadley frowned. “And did that walk include visiting Isabella?”
“I walked by the villa to see if I could determine whether her brother was home.”
“And?”
“He hasn’t left the house.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A few hours.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I just thought…in case Isabella needed me.”
Hadley shook her head. “What if I needed you?”
“You kicked me out of your bed, remember?”
Hadley tried to look remorseful. “I let you sleep on the couch, but obviously, you haven’t slept. Have you eaten?”
“No,” Luca said.
Hadley reached into her handbag and removed what was left of the croissant. She handed him the napkin.
He unwrapped the pastry and raised his brows.
“Looks like an animal got into this.”
“No, it was me. I bit off the top.”
Luca laughed. “I’m starving, so I’m going to eat this anyway.”
“It was yours, but you weren’t there, so…”
“Cara,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For whatever it is you think I’ve done. Are we good now?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Well, let me know when you make up your mind.”
“Meanwhile—” Luca leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth, branding her. “You taste like honey, amore mio.”
“I dipped the croissant into some honey before I ate it.”
“Very generous of you to share,” he said, piercing her with his eyes as he brought her body toward his.
A booming voice erupted out of the mist from behind them.
“Hadley. I’m here. What’s the emergency? What are you doing in Venice?”
Hadley broke away from Luca to face her boss. “Massimo, thank you for coming.”
“Luca, it’s nice to see you again.”
“You too, Signore Domingo.”
Hadley twisted her hands and shifted her weight from her left foot to her right.
“You know Rule Number Seven in your Pocket Guide?”
“Of course. Don’t Be Afraid To Ask for Help.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m in way over my head. I thought I could handle this situation, but—”
“Handle what situation?”
Hadley exhaled. “Last Friday, when you were, um, indisposed, I mean at lunch with, well, unavailable, I got a phone call, and I didn’t want to bother you. I thought I could handle things by myself. That I would bring in a new client for the agency.”
“What new client?”
“A woman. A woman who claimed she was the new curator for the Uffizi Gallery.”
“There is no new curator at the Uffizi. The current curator is a man.”
“Yes, I have since discovered that, but this woman—”
“Does this woman have a name?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I met with her last Friday night at Piazzale Michelangelo. She gave me her card, but there was no name on the card, just a phone number.”
“And what did she want?”
“She said that a Botticelli study sent to an exhibit at the High Museum in Atlanta indicated that either the study was a fake, or that possibly Birth of Venus in the Uffizi is a fake.”
“That’s impossible,” Massimo barked. “That Botticelli is not a fake.”
“That’s what I thought. But the study, the face of Venus, looked nothing like the artist model in Birth of Venus. And now I know why. It is a study of a completely different Botticelli painting called Amore. It’s the third in his trilogy.”
“Hadley, there is no third Botticelli painting. There’s only Birth of Venus and Primavera.”
“But, Massimo—Signore Domingo, I saw it with my own eyes. It’s called Amore, it’s brilliant, executed in the same style as his other two masterpieces.”
“But that’s impossible. If there was a third piece, we would know about it.”
Hadley rushed the words, tripping over the sentences to get out the story of the frightened girl locked in the villa, and the secret museum where the paintings were hidden away, and the diary documenting the provenance of Amore.
“Slow down, Hadley.” Are you saying you saw a third Botticelli in this villa, right here in Venice?”
“Certo,” she answered. “And there were more besides, smaller Botticellis and other masters, paintings I’ve never heard of or seen before. And crates of others locked away in storage in the same villa.”
Massimo became animated. “This could be a find of a lifetime. A lost masterpiece. But what led you to this villa?”
“The woman.”
“Ah, the mystery woman with no name.”
“She’s going to meet us here this morning. In fact, I’m expecting her at any minute.”
“How did this woman know where to find these particular paintings?”
“She gave me this address, so Luca and I came here and met the owner of the villa, who let us into a locked museum.”
“How do you know this woman is not an art thief?”
“That’s it. I don’t know anything. I’ve begun to suspect something isn’t right, which is why I called you. The woman was acting suspiciously. She’s on her way with a team to collect the art.”
“Collect the art? She must not do that. I’m right, she’s an art thief. What does this woman look like?”
Luca stepped up. “Signore, I took a picture of her at the Piazza that evening. Here, I’ll show you.” Luca took out his camera and located the photo he’d shot of the woman.
Massimo studied the photo intently. “It’s rather dark. But this young woman looks familiar.” Massimo rubbed his chin. “If I’m not mistaken, this is Ingrid Adelman. She’s the last surviving relative of a family that was wiped out in the Holocaust. Over the past eighty years, her family has been trying to get restitution or the return of their property, including priceless works of art. They haven’t had much success to date.
“Some of their paintings were restored from public museums and private individuals around the world who weren’t aware they were stolen, but governments were rarely cooperative, and the family lost their cases more often than they won. But I wasn’t involved in finding a Botticelli painting. Apparently, the biggest prize of them all managed to elude them.
“None of the museums in Germany or Austria are cooperating. She’s had some luck with the U.S. Attorney and the FBI in New York when they were able to retrieve a looted painting from a museum or a private citizen. But the bulk of the family’s fortune has figuratively gone up in smoke. Lost forever. She may be trying an end run, having us track down some of the paintings on her behalf. I worked with her father but was unable to find more than one or two of the looted paintings. She probably got my name from him and hoped I could circumvent the courts.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not if she can prove the paintings belonged to her family.”
“I have a diary, and I know where the Botticelli studies are that may be able to verify the provenance of the lost masterpiece.”
“But I wonder, was she just going to steal the paintings? You say she’s bringing a team?”
“I told her to bring crates, lots of crates. But Signore, there may be a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“One of the owners of the villa is the grandson of Hermann Göring. His sister says he’s violent. These paintings have been hidden away for a long time. He has secretly been selling them off, but even if we get in, he will not allow us to take them.”
“Luca, have you contacted the Carabinieri Art Squad?”
“No, Hadley asked me not to.”
“Well, I’ll need to get into the villa to see the paintings myself. We’ll have to formulate a plan before we decide how to proceed.”
“Rule Number Five,” Hadley offered.
“Esattamente.” Massimo beamed.
“No wonder she was so secretive. She wasn’t being honest with me.”
“The art detective world is shady,” Massimo admitted.
“What rule is that?”
“Perhaps that will be the first rule in Book Two of my Pocket Guide.”
“Are you working on Book Two?”
“I had every intention, but life has gotten in the way.”
A girl in a blonde ponytail got off a vaporetto and strode toward them.
“That’s the girl, the curator imposter,” Hadley noted.
“Ah, yes, that’s Miss Adelman. She’s trying to regain possession of her stolen property with or without the courts. Can’t say as I blame her.”
Hadley stepped closer to Massimo. “She thinks you’ve been working the case with me the whole time.”
“Understood.” Massimo stepped forward and took Ingrid’s hand.
“Miss Adelman, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I enjoyed working with your grandmother and your father.”
“Yes, he was very impressed with you and how you helped him with the return of some of our paintings. But that was just the tip of the iceberg.”
“So you decided to take matters into your own hands, bypass the courts.”
Ingrid bristled. “You know our history. The court is of little use in these matters. They tend to protect the ill-gotten gains of the looters.”
“True in many cases,” Massimo admitted. “Some subsequent owners aren’t even aware of where their paintings came from. But there’s a right way and a wrong way to win the day.”
“Rule Number Eight in Massimo Domingo’s Guide to Stolen Art Recovery,” Hadley pointed out, removing the olive-oil stained Pocket Guide from her handbag and opening it to the eighth chapter.
“What I mean by that is that you stoop to the level of the art thieves if you simply try to steal back your paintings,” Massimo pointed out.
“My paintings,” Ingrid insisted. “Both my father and my grandmother died before our property was restored. I don’t intend to do the same.”
“My dear, you need more than good intentions in the art detective business,” Massimo pontificated.
“Rule Number Nine,” offered Hadley.
“Frankly, Signore, I’m tired of playing by the rules. I know my property is here. This villa was sold under duress by my grandfather, and I’ll wager the paintings ‘acquired’ with it are here as well. I’ve done my research, and I won’t be swayed. I’m tired of waiting for what’s mine.”
“If I took the Germans to court, they would win,” Ingrid pointed out, “even if the lawsuit originated in the United States.”
She was no doubt correct. Massimo explained to Luca and Hadley that in August 2020 a U.S. federal appeals court in Los Angeles ruled that a painting estimated at $30 million, traded to the Nazis by a Jewish woman wanting to escape the Holocaust in 1939, could remain the property of the Spanish museum that acquired it in 1992. So the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum in Madrid was allowed to keep the Impressionist painting, Rue St.-Honoré, Apres-Midi, Effet de Pluie, painted in 1897 by Camille Pissarro.
“This case cycled through the courts of Spain and the United States for twenty years,” explained Ingrid. “That woman inherited the painting from her father-in-law. We have proof of that because she had a photo of her family with the painting. In 1939 she traded it to the Nazis in exchange for exit visas for herself, her husband, and her grandson. The heirs spent years trying to recover the painting, finally concluding it was lost and accepting $13,000 in reparations from the German government. The painting was hanging in the family’s German home. I have such a picture of my great-grandparents with one of the paintings here, standing in front of Amore.”
Massimo added, “This is just one more example of a Jewish family denied its legacy by a museum that won’t return the looted art. Of course, she can appeal, but that’s not always successful.”
Hadley mentioned another famous case that did have a happy ending. She cited the eventual return of “The Lady in Gold,” the 1907 Gustav Klimt painting Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, worth $135 million and displayed at the Galerie Belvedere in Vienna.
The painting, commissioned and owned by Bauer’s husband, a Jewish banker and sugar producer, was stolen by the Nazis in 1941 and confiscated with his property and assets when he fled to Switzerland. Upon his death in 1946, he designated his nieces and nephew to inherit his estate. It was finally returned to Adele Block-Bauer’s niece and bought by Ronald Lauder for his Neue Galerie, New York. Hadley had seen the painting—oil, silver, and gold on canvas, representative of Klimt’s golden phase—on display in person in New York. She had stood mesmerized by the painting, just as she had done when she first set eyes on Amore. There were other Klimts at the Belvedere, but none so exquisite.
“But that was a long and tedious seven-year process. I have already spent most of my adult life trying to seek justice.”
“Well, let’s knock on the door and see what’s on the other side,” Massimo asserted, in an effort to maintain decorum.
“Luca, why don’t you do the honors. Let’s make this an official visit.”
Luca nodded, pulled out his badge and knocked on the door. His gun was visible to all.
For a minute no one answered, but there was definite movement inside the villa. The locks unclicked, and the door opened.
“Luca,” Isabella stepped forward until she saw the other people. “Who are all these people?”
“These are people who are here to help. Isabella, you remember Hadley Evans, and this is her boss, Signore Massimo Domingo from Firenze. And this is Signorina Ingrid Adelman.”
“I appreciate you all coming, but my brother, Matteo, will be back soon, and he can’t find you all here.”
“I’ve been guarding the door. He didn’t come out.”
“There’s a secret entrance in the back. He slips in and out anytime he pleases.”
Luca reached out and skimmed the back of his hand lightly across Isabella’s neck. She recoiled.
“Did Matteo hurt you?”
Isabella quickly covered the front of her lowcut dress with a sweater.
“And here?” Luca swore and raised his voice, while he pulled back the sweater. Dark purple bruises bloomed across her breasts and the front of her neck.
