Shadowed by Grace (31 page)

“Her name was Melanie Justice.”

Chapter 28

RACHEL STEPPED INSIDE THE
castle and walked toward the room with the window where she’d seen Scott’s stormy face. One glance had told her she needed to find him and make sure he didn’t need her. Then she’d develop today’s film. Maybe someone with the Indian and New Zealand troops could transport it to headquarters for her and from there to the press office in Rome and her editor.

It wasn’t until she found the right hallway and stepped closer to the salon that she noticed the men deep in conversation somewhere inside the room. She nodded at a sentry and slipped inside, only to return to the hallway before they could see her—the intensity on their faces warned it was more than casual. She’d wait until Scott was done talking to whoever was in there. She caught the occasional word, but she heard enough to stay riveted in place.

One glance in the room had stunned her. The soaring ceiling and the walls lined with art. Could they be discussing the paintings?

She hadn’t meant to overhear, but the cavernous ceilings seemed to carry select words her direction. Just enough to leave holes she couldn’t comprehend what they discussed. When she heard
Melanie Justice
, she would have rushed into the room if the sentry hadn’t stepped in her path.

The soldier sidestepped out of her way quickly, but even though she wanted to rush in, she remained frozen.

How many people knew her mother’s name?

It couldn’t be many.

She squared her shoulders and stepped into the room.

A man brushed past her, eyes unseeing, feet rushing down the hall and away. A moment later Scott followed, but he seemed more intent on the Italian than on her. She took a step to follow, but the way Scott didn’t see her stung. She’d find him later. Ask why they spoke of her mother. She retraced her steps to the room the men had occupied. The guard nodded at her but let her enter, perhaps because the door wasn’t locked. Maybe in here she could find the item that launched their conversation.

The large room stood shrouded in gathering shadows. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she searched the wall for a switch. When she flipped it, nothing happened. Still her breath caught at what she could see in the growing darkness. So many paintings lined the walls. The treasures of Florence? The room stood empty of most furniture except for an occasional chair. She imagined hours soaking in the beauty of each piece, let alone the combined glory. All in one room. Framed canvasses stacked like cheap reproductions, one after the other in rows.

May she never grow immune to such great works.

Momma had often taken her to museums. That was her way of conveying her affection for art to her child. While Rachel tolerated the visits as a youngster and then longed to end them as she approached adulthood, she now marveled she could move as close as she wanted to each painting. No guard waited inside the room to keep her at an honoring distance from the art.

An amazing painting overtook the wall next to the door, where it rested as if waiting to be hung. It stood over six feet tall and more than ten feet wide. She felt dwarfed by its size and even by the figures painted into the scene. Each felt larger than she was. It was the sort of painting she could spend a lifetime admiring and analyzing and still miss the true story the painter had in mind.

“She is breathtaking, yes?”

She startled and turned to see the Italian had returned. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I can be . . . stealthy.” He grinned at his word choice, revealing straight, yellowed teeth. He stood an inch or two taller than her. She met his gaze as he held a pipe in one hand, clasping the other behind his back. “I forgot to lock the door. So the painting?”

She studied the painting. “It pulls me into its story.”

“Botticelli, he had a way with paint.”

“Botticelli? But it isn’t religious.” She remembered her momma showing her several of his works in a book of collected Italian pieces. Each had told the story of a scene in the Bible, all with heavy religious undertones.

The man tsked, even that carrying a melodic Italian sound. “Sandro Botticelli did much more than that alone.” He turned to study her rather than the painting. She focused on the figures and details in front of her, unsure what to make of his attention. “Italy creates many things of beauty.”

What must it be like to be so comfortable with the masters that the person in front of you was more compelling? At the moment Rachel couldn’t imagine as her gaze seemed glued to the scene in front of her. To stand in front of it was to be consumed by the mystery. Why paint a mythical scene? Most of his famous works held spiritual overtones like
The Nativity
or the
Adoration of the Magi
. Had his patron, possibly a member of the Medici family, ordered it?

“Venus in her created glory.” The Italian accent colored the English words with a heavy stroke, one that drew her to pay attention to his words. She had the sense she didn’t want to miss anything he might say.

“Why Venus?”

“Why anything?” The man stepped closer to the painting. “I have loved this painting since I instructed in Florence. See the detail? The multitude of flora in her garden?”

Rachel nodded. It was impossible to miss the patterns and variety. The central woman captivated her. The red cloth she held draped around her form, not shielding her shy yet knowing smile. Her head cocked as if she gave her full attention to the person standing before the painting. It seemed an invitation to share secrets. Come closer and maybe she’d whisper hers in exchange for learning one or two of yours.

Rachel stepped back, away from the magnetic beauty that begged her to come ever closer, to risk her questions. “It tells a story.”

“Much like your camera.” He pointed the pipe at her constant companion.

“I suppose.” She held the camera up. “May I?”

“Me?”

“With the painting.”

The man shrugged, a mix of pleasant smile and shyness warring on his face. He stepped near, then shuffled his feet with one hand on his hip and the pipe held to his mouth.

“Look at her.”

“Ah, Venus. She demands attention.” The man pivoted a degree toward the painting. “I have known few women with her beauty.”

Rachel adjusted her camera, then snapped a shot. Then another. She prayed her editor would see the value in photos of an art superintendent who had worked so hard to save the beauty he now admired. Standing with the fruit of his labor in such an unlikely spot. If only she could send a sound track to accompany the photo, then the world could hear how near the battle trudged to the depositories. Replicate this moment across Italy times the number of pieces saved. It would astound those who saw, but she could capture this image, this man.

She finished, then let the camera hang around her neck. “Why store them here?”

“A way to keep them from the war. Little did anyone anticipate the armies marching through this quiet valley.” He shrugged. “We did what we could.” He looked past her as if seeing into another place. “There are many more. . . . I wish . . . ah . . .”

“What happened to them?”

“They were scavenged.” His features tightened. “Soldiers took what pleased them.” He stood in thought, then made that laconic motion again, one that seemed to move his whole frame. “But these I protected.” He led her to a chair. “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to be part of this story, but I also have a personal mission.”

“Sounds important.”

“It is . . . to me.” She closed her mouth before she shared too much with the kind man. But her mother’s name?

“Have you been successful?”

“It is hard since I seek a man. It was crazy to hope I could find someone during war.”

“Who do you seek? Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t know his name. Only that he was a close friend of my mother’s. I had a clue with a sketchbook, but it’s disappeared. It was crazy to hope I could find someone based on sketches.”

The man studied her with compassion softening his expression. “Crazy keeps us alive in these times.”

“I suppose.” She smiled at him as he stifled a yawn. “I must let you go.”

“Now you are here, I will return to Florence to see what I can save there.”

“But the Germans remain.”

“As does my wife. If I am gone long, things will not go well for her.”

“Of course.” She frowned at the thought of the tension he must feel. “Lieutenant Lindstrom will protect these paintings.”

“This I know. He is honorable.”

“Yes.” The man turned to go, but she needed him to wait while she gathered her courage. To ask a question. “Wait.”

The man turned sharply at her words.

“One question? Please?”

“I must leave.”

“This will only take a moment.”

He nodded, then glanced at his watch.

Rachel inhaled, then squared her shoulders. “I don’t have the sketchbook, but maybe you can still help. Did you meet an American woman who studied art in Florence in 1920.”

“Many study art in Firenze.” The man paused as if torn between asking a question of his own and fleeing. “It is rich with heritage and beauty.”

“Of course.” She tugged together her collapsing courage. If he planned to leave, she must spit it out now. “This woman was sketched by a local artist.”

“Often students serve as models too.” The man blew out a puff of air, as if his pipe was filled with tobacco and lit. “A name?”

“Melanie Justice. You spoke of her as I arrived. Why?”

“I must leave.” He turned on his heel and left.

The walls of the large bedroom pressed against Scott. Quite a feat for a room that could house several refugee families. Tyler hadn’t reappeared since they’d arrived. Rachel might as well have evaporated in a mist. He hadn’t glimpsed her since he’d seen her through the window.

She could do as she wished, and if that included cheering a soldier, who was he to discourage it?

A small, petty man to feel the flood of jealousy that appeared when the soldier brushed her cheek. Skin so soft his fingers still sensed the smoothness.

Rolls of weariness crested in him. Being ever alert on the drive up had taken exhausting vigilance. Then the arrival contained a mix of excitement to see Renaldo, to know he was fine, that he’d survived the battles so far. That was tempered with the reality the man was tied to Rachel’s mother. He should retrieve the sketchbook and take it to Renaldo so his mentor could confirm whether he drew the sketches. Then Scott could figure out how to tell Rachel he had taken it.

“Can’t believe I found my way back. Never seen so many sets of stairs that go in different directions. None connected.” Tyler strutted into the room, smelling of garlic. “These refugees are quite accommodating. Grateful to have the Americans arrive.”

“I wouldn’t say the army’s arrived.”

“But we’re here.” Tyler slouched against the pillow on his bed. “Any luck finding your art thief?”

“None.” Scott sighed. “The person remains a ghost.”

“I’ve got a theory.”

“Yeah?” Might as well listen since he didn’t have a good one.

“What if it’s Rachel?”

Scott bolted upright. He didn’t like the direction Tyler’s thoughts turned his. “Are you crazy?”

“She has access traveling with you. And who would search her bags?”

“You have the same access.”

“Sure, but I’m with the jeep. She always carries a bag too. Do you think it’s just her camera?”

“Women carry bags.”

“In a war zone?”

“When did women start coming to wars? It’s all new.”

“I bet if you searched her bags, you’d find something.” Tyler shrugged.

Scott didn’t like it, but there was a thief. “If it’s not Rachel, who could it be?”

“You.”

Tyler’s short word brought Scott up short, hitting too close to the truth. “Me?”

“You’re the expert. You’re the one telling us where to go. Why not you?” There was a spark of something dangerous in the man’s eyes. Did he know?

“Who else?”

“Every soldier out there. Most don’t have a clue what they walk by every day.”

“And you do?”

“More than most.” Tyler shrugged. “It’s your problem. I’m off to find a sweet woman to watch the stars with.” He sauntered out of the room.

Scott stared at the door separating his room from Rachel’s. He could search her bags, but he didn’t want to. What would he do if he found something? And what if she walked in? He groaned as the thought wedged into his mind. He should search Tyler’s too, let them search his after he gave the sketchbook to Renaldo. Then they’d all be clear, and he could focus his energy on finding the thief.

One soldier probably took one, another stole a second. None understanding exactly what they liberated. Maybe the only way to clear the lingering doubt about Rachel was to search. Then he’d know one way or another.

He shook off the thoughts. Tonight he’d get paperwork caught up so DeWald knew where Scott was, what he’d found, and could select other MFAA men to join him. And Florence waited around the corner. The twenty or so kilometers had never seemed longer.

He closed his eyes and imagined the narrow, lined streets. The apartments that closed in from above as the roads neared the bridges that crisscrossed the Arno and connected the sides of Florence. His favorite was Ponte Vecchio with its multistoried shops that looked ready to spill from the bridge, which had been in use since medieval times. The bridges were another piece of the artistic glory of the city that shone like a jewel along the Arno.