The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 8
The key was no longer around Isabella’s neck.
Tears welled in Isabella’s eyes. “When he found out you were here yesterday, he lost his temper, again.” She covered her face in shame.
Luca tipped Isabella’s chin up with his finger so they were face to face. “Isabella, this isn’t normal behavior. I cannot tolerate it. I’m taking you away from here. No arguments.”
Hadley’s thoughts whirled. Where was he planning to take Isabella? Back to Florence? To his house? Why did he have to be her savior? He looked like he wanted to kiss her bruises away. And where did Hadley fit into this cozy scenario?
“We’re here to see the paintings,” Hadley began, trying to take control of a deteriorating situation.
“Matteo took the key to the museum. He said I could no longer be trusted.”
Luca swept past Isabella. The others followed. “I don’t need a key,” he bellowed.
“What are you going to do?” Hadley asked.
“Shoot off the lock if I have to, or break down the door.”
“Luca, no! Matteo will know you’ve been here. It’s too dangerous. He plans to remove the paintings today. To sell them. You all need to leave right away.”
Luca frowned. “I’m not afraid of a bully.”
Ingrid wrung her hands in bewilderment. Massimo looked proudly at Luca. “Lead the way, my boy.”
Luca led them up the stairs to the museum entrance. He tried the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. “Stand back,” Luca yelled. He pulled out his pistol and shot off the lock. He strode in, and the group followed, assembling in the center of the circular room.
Hadley switched on the light. Massimo was the first to react. “Oh, mio Dio.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Amore.
Ingrid sobbed, belying her cool exterior demeanor. “It’s Amore.” With trembling fingers, she opened her purse and pulled out a crinkled, faded, black-and-white photograph. “Here are my grandparents standing in front of this painting in their home in Berlin. Proof that Amore belongs to our family. No one believed me when I told them about the third Botticelli, but here, you see. It’s true.”
“If I didn’t see this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it,” Massimo agreed, speaking reverently upon closer examination. “It’s a lost masterpiece.”
“Is it genuine?” Hadley asked.
“There’s no doubt,” answered the signore. “Unsigned. Even further proof. And if we can authenticate the diary, we have our documentation.”
“Where has this painting been hiding all these centuries?” Hadley wondered.
“The possibilities are endless,” Massimo said. “Tracing the provenance will be difficult. But as to how it came to be here, I would guess it changed hands during the war. Ingrid, do you have any idea about the provenance of the painting?”
“No,” she said, “except that the last legitimate owner was my grandfather.”
“Herr Adelman.”
“Yes.”
“There’s one possible theory,” Massimo speculated. “World War Two unleashed a tsunami of devastation across the continent. When the Allies began bombing Berlin, Hitler ordered the construction of three ‘impenetrable’ flak towers to safeguard the city’s art treasures and those he had ‘acquired’ by illegal means. These included seven hundred works of art by some of the world’s great masters—Caravaggio, Donatello, Rubens, and three of Botticelli’s early religious works—four hundred paintings and three hundred sculptures in all. One of these towers—Flakturm Friedrichshain—was the evacuation site for what is today known as the Bode-Museum.
“In May 1945, the Soviets attacked the city and snatched up any works of art they could find, taking approximately two million objects worth billions of dollars,” Massimo continued. “Two suspicious fires broke out, and three floors of the tower being used by the museum were burned, and all the contents were believed destroyed.
“Many believe the Soviets were responsible for starting the fires to cover up their theft of the treasures they had taken or that they may have pilfered some of the masterpieces before the second fire struck. Many people think these precious works of art may not really have been destroyed.
“Many years later, a Botticelli painting thought to be part of the burned collection surfaced at auction, proving it had survived the blaze. There was hope that others did too. As you know, Botticelli is best known for two of his mythological works—The Birth of Venus and Primavera—but this is the third, only rumored, until now. What a groundbreaking discovery! A great mystery.
“What if Göring managed to wrest it from the Russians? That would explain why it wasn’t at Carinhall, but why didn’t it end up with the rest of the recovered paintings after his arrest?”
“In her diary, Göring’s mistress, Isabella’s grandmother, said he was hiding it from Hitler,” Hadley explained. “It was that valuable. He never displayed it at Carinhall. And, according to the diary, he ‘acquired’ it indirectly from Ingrid’s grandfather, so it probably never made it to the museum and then to the flak tower. It would make sense that he stored it away from the other paintings. He had this special museum built in the villa to hide it.”
“And look around, Signore, at the other paintings in the room,” Hadley said.
Massimo literally had to force himself to tear his eyes away from Amore. He studied the paintings, some Botticellis, others by similar Italian masters.
“It’s a treasure trove.” He turned to Isabella. “And you say there’s more in crates hidden in this villa?”
Isabella nodded.
“And Signore, remember your Rule Number Three, Always Look Beneath the Surface,” Hadley said, pointing to the large framed piece of art hanging across from Amore. “I think upon closer inspection you may uncover another masterpiece beneath this canvas.”
Massimo moved toward the painting, examined it, and concluded, “You may be right.”
“It might take years to catalog these, trace the provenance, and find their rightful owners, if that’s even possible,” observed Massimo. “Many European countries will be vying for these, trying to claim them. We could be tied up in court for decades.”
Ingrid sighed. “Now you see what I’ve been going through.”
“Miss Adelman, I will make every effort to restore your property to you, no matter how long it takes.”
Ingrid looked relieved.
“What about this villa? Does it belong to your family?”
“It does,” Ingrid said.
Isabella twisted her hands. “This is my home.”
The tension in the room was as thick as a blanket of fog.
No one noticed the presence of another man in the room.
“This is my house, and you are trespassing.”
Isabella gasped and stepped back in alarm. “Matteo!”
He shot his sister a menacing scowl.
“You let these people in again, after I told you not to? Did you not learn your lesson? I’ll deal with you later.” He dismissed her as if she were a pesky gnat. Then he addressed the rest of the people in the room. “Now, if you don’t leave my property, I will call the polizia.”
“I am the police,” said Luca, stepping up and flashing his badge. “I don’t have much use for men who use women as their personal punching bags. You belong in jail for what you’ve done to your sister.”
Isabella looked down at the marble floor.
“What goes on in the privacy of my home is no business of yours. You need to leave immediately. I have some important guests arriving shortly.”
“Matteo, you know we are forbidden from selling those paintings. Grandmother always told us—”
“And what did our grandmother expect us to live on? What funds did she leave us to maintain this villa? Our grandmother was a whore. She was bought and paid for, and everything in this villa belongs to me. What do you think has been supporting us all these years? I give you people fair warning. Your plans to divvy up my family’s legacy are premature—everybody out!” Matteo ordered.
Luca reholstered his gun, grabbed Matteo by his shirt, and lifted him off the ground.
“I represent the Carabinieri. These paintings do not belong to you. They are stolen property. Distribution of these assets will be left to the authorities. I am officially notifying you that we will be taking possession of the looted contents in this villa. You may stay and cooperate or you may vacate the villa. Your choice.” He dropped Matteo unceremoniously, and he stumbled but managed to remain upright.
“I will call my lawyers,” said Matteo.
“Call them,” Luca challenged. “And your sister will bring assault charges against you.”
Isabella became agitated. Matteo moved toward his sister, grabbed a hank of her long blonde hair and pulled her up tightly against him.
“This is all your fault. You let these strangers into my house and ruined all my plans. You just can’t follow orders.”
Matteo took out a knife and held it against his sister’s throat, teasing out a spot of blood.
“I swear I will kill her if you don’t all leave,” Matteo threatened.
Isabella froze.
Luca went for his weapon, itching to use it. “Just give me a reason.”
“Luca, don’t,” Isabella cried. “He won’t hurt me. I’m his sister. He loves me.”
“He’s already hurt you,” Luca reasoned softly, his eyes never leaving hers. Focusing like a laser on Matteo, he raised his voice to her captor. “Let her go, or I will have no choice but to use this weapon.”
“I hold all the cards,” Matteo cackled. “This villa and all its contents belong to me. It was gifted to my grandmother and passed down to my mother and then me.”
“And your sister,” Luca mentioned.
“She will do as I say. Her opinion is of no value.”
“Sir,” Massimo said, stepping forward. “We can resolve this peacefully. No one needs to get hurt. We have a woman here who claims she’s the proper owner of this painting and perhaps others in the house. The courts will have to weigh in.”
“I’ve already made arrangements for Amore and the rest of the paintings to be picked up today by buyers, so I’m afraid the matter is out of your hands.”
Hadley felt a headache coming on. She feared for Isabella and for Luca. If Luca shot Matteo, he would be committing a crime. If not, and Matteo carried out his threat, his sister would be the victim. Isabella didn’t deserve to die. Something had to be done to break the stalemate. She reached into her purse and pulled out a metal nail file.
“If you harm your sister, I will slash this painting and it won’t be worth anything to anyone.”
Matteo frowned, slightly loosening his hold on Isabella. His eyes flew to the painting. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” Hadley swore.
“Hadley,” Massimo said, calmly. “You don’t want to ruin that masterpiece. It’s invaluable.”
“So is Isabella’s life,” she stated.
“Matteo, we can talk this over, come to an agreement,” Luca said, straining to control his anger.
Hadley held up the nail file and approached the masterpiece.
“Hadley, don’t!” Massimo shouted.
Hadley’s hands shook. Would she do it? Could she destroy the most beautiful work of art she’d ever seen? And if she did attempt to damage the masterpiece, would Luca shoot her, or Matteo throw the knife at her first? If it meant saving a life, maybe two, she would have no choice.
“Let her go,” Luca urged, raising his gun. “Hadley, step away from the painting.”
“Hadley,” Isabella pleaded. “Don’t ruin the painting. That was our grandmother’s legacy.”
Matteo’s glazed eyes were fixed on Hadley and the painting. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten about his sister.
Suddenly, Isabella swirled around and turned the knife in her brother’s hand down and across, plunging it deep into Matteo’s ribs.
“Enough. I’ve had enough,” she shouted. When she saw the blood staining Matteo’s shirt, she dropped the knife and ran to Luca. In shock, she went pale, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Luca caught her in his arms.
Hadley exhaled and placed the nail file carefully back in her purse, sharp end down. Her heartbeat slowed.
“Hadley, were you really going to destroy that precious work of art?” Massimo asked.
“N-no,” she stammered uncertainly. “I don’t think so, but I had to do something.”
Matteo clutched his stomach. Massimo pulled out his phone and made an emergency call.
“The ambulance will be here in a few minutes,” he announced.
Hadley looked at Luca, who had carried Isabella over to the viewing bench in the center of the room and was cradling her in his arms. Luca seemed lost in Isabella. Was he lost to her? He had risked his life to save the girl. He was in full hero mode. Would he have risked his life for anyone, or was Isabella the woman he truly cared for? When Hadley saw Luca with the gun pointed at Matteo, she had been so frightened for him, frantic about how the scene would play out.
She realized, at that moment, she was in love with him. But was it too late? And what about King Charles? He was waiting for her back in Florence. She had to face him. Maybe it would all work out for the best. Luca with Isabella—both comfortably Italian and culturally compatible, and King Charles with her. Two fish out of European waters.
The ambulance arrived, and the emergency medical technicians picked up Matteo and began working on him. Another medic examined Isabella, who had begun to come to.
“She’s had quite a shock,” Luca said. “It’s a classic case of abuse. Check out her bruises as well.”
“Will you be accompanying the patients to hospital?” one of the medics asked Luca.
Luca looked at Hadley.
“It’s okay,” she said, defeated. “Go with her. Make sure she’s okay.”
While the medics put Matteo’s stretcher in the back of the ambulance, Luca helped Isabella into the front seat.
Massimo turned to Hadley. “I’ll call the Art Squad. I have my contact numbers back at the office. I’ll get them from Gerda.”
Hadley blushed and handed over the little black notebook to her boss. “I have your contact book, Signore. I’m sorry. I took it from your desk. I thought I might need it.”
Massimo didn’t hesitate. “You did the right thing.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad? Your actions will right many wrongs.”
Ingrid walked over and stood in front of the painting. She held out her cell phone. “Here, Hadley, take a picture of me in front of Amore. I want to send this to my attorney.”
Hadley took the shot.
“I only wish my father and my grandmother were alive to see this. After so long, we may finally have it back.”
“You look exhausted, Hadley,” Massimo said. “I am on the job now. I understand you have out-of-town company. Why don’t we wait for the Art Squad, make sure the paintings are photographed and protected and shipped to a warehouse in Florence where we can access and inspect them. Then we’ll do our best to get them into the right hands. You can help me do a preliminary catalog of the works. I’ll take over your hotel room. You can make the afternoon train back to Florence tonight, so you won’t keep your young man waiting.” By “young man,” Hadley knew Massimo was talking about King Charles and not Luca. Even he could see that Luca was no longer hers.
She hated to leave at such a critical juncture, but she knew she had to resolve the state of affairs with King Charles. And she didn’t want to stick around to witness the blossoming romance between Luca and Isabella.
“Did I ever tell you about the time when—” Massimo began.
“Actually,” Hadley interrupted, sure she’d heard his story a dozen times before, “Ingrid looks as if she could use some nourishment. Why don’t I take her down to Piazza San Marco to get something to eat and clear her head?”
“That would be wonderful,” Ingrid said, relief in her eyes.
Ingrid looked like she could use some fritto misto and a friend.
“Miss Adelman, rest assured I will do right by you,” Massimo assured. “When you and Hadley return, you are welcome to wait here with us, or you can return to wherever it is you came from. We will make sure the proper paperwork is filed.”
“I’d prefer to wait here with Amore, if I might. But I would love a break.”
“You’re welcome to wait, but you understand it could take months to sort this all out.”
“My family has already waited more than eighty years. Another few months won’t make a difference.”
Hadley stretched her arms and followed Massimo around while he did his job. He really was good at this. It had probably been so long since he’d had such a high-profile case, he’d lost his way. But he was gaining his footing, in his element, and she was happy to be at his side.
She longed for the familiar, for stability. She even missed her mother. Maybe it was time to give up her dreams and go home.
Chapter Fourteen
Hadley and Ingrid snagged a prime outdoor table at St. Mark’s Square. It was a touristy establishment and the pigeons were out in force, but it was a beautiful day, and they were enjoying the ambience only Venice can offer. And you could hardly get a bad meal in Italy. Hadley ordered an amaretto sour, and Ingrid was sipping a Bellini. It was a little early in the afternoon to be drinking, but Hadley felt she’d already lived a lifetime in a day, and she was still steaming over Luca’s behavior.
“I’m sorry I lied to you and pretended I was a museum curator,” Ingrid said. “But it was the only way I could get the help I needed. I had exhausted the court system. I didn’t have enough evidence.”
Hadley knew a thing or two about lying, so how could she not accept Ingrid’s apology?
“I was certain you were going to be my pathway to a job at the Uffizi.”
“Is that what you want out of life?” Ingrid asked. She seemed really interested.
“Sure, why not?” What she really wanted was Luca, but that vaporetto had already left the lagoon. “If you’re not a museum curator, then what are you?”
