Turned to Stone (19 page)

“There was never an ‘us two.’ Laura, huh? I wondered how you’d do at something that doesn’t involve shooting. What did you find out?”

“The director of the gallery is named Maria Santucci, and, lucky for you, she’s a talker. She said they purchased the sculpture from the owners of the Leoni Antique Center after it burned down. Remember you told me that after it arrived at the gallery, three people died?”

“Yeah. Can’t you tell me something I don’t already know?”

“Not just ‘something’; I have all the details. One of the stiffs-to-be was a janitor who’d been about to retire and had a heart attack while watching a soccer match.” Roberto looked up from his notes. “Nothing strange about that. Most people can live with getting their pay cut, losing their job, or paying a fee every time they use their credit card, but if Sergio Ramos misses a penalty, it’s all over. The man’s name was Martino Laszlo. He was a Hungarian widower, and he lived in an apartment near the Petrarca Gallery.”

“Did they find out anything strange?”

“The old guy had suffered four heart attacks and been hospitalized three times. He had a weak heart and apparently had never really listened to his doctors.”

“I think we can rule him out as a victim of the curse. Tell me about the second person who died.”

“Angelo Carrera. A businessman from Sicily who began to study the Medusa when it was still at the Leoni Center. After the fire, he continued to go see it at the Petrarca Gallery. He took lots of photos and spent evenings in the library and archives, going over old documents. One day he told the director he wanted to buy it. Another person was also interested, but Carrera’s offer was so generous the gallery couldn’t refuse it.”

“How much did he offer?”

Roberto named a six-digit euro price.

Jaime whistled.

“Carrera had a small family fortune, and he dabbled in history and antiques,” Roberto continued. “One or two of his articles were even published in magazines. The gallery was having money troubles, and they didn’t think twice about selling the statue to him.” He dipped a large piece of bread in his egg yolk. “It was Carrera who sent it to the Pontecorvo House Museum in Verona.”

“Why?”

“His daughter was the director there at the time. Apparently it was a birthday present.”

“Then what?”

“He was so happy about the deal, Carrera decided to celebrate with a cruise around the Mediterranean.”

“What a guy. He pays a fortune for a lump of marble and then goes for a cruise. When I grow up I want to be just like him.”

“I doubt that. Right now, he’s pushing up daisies. Or coral. Or whatever the hell a body would push up if it were buried at the bottom of the sea.”

“What happened to him?”

“An accident very much like the one your cargo ship had.”

“That was no accident.”

“Neither was his.”

“He was murdered? Why?”

“Fortunately, Maria Santucci isn’t just a big talker; she’s also more curious than the two of us put together. When she sold the Medusa to Carrera she decided she should look into his background. She was shocked by what she found. Carrera was born in Sicily, and when he died he was the thirty-first-most-powerful man in Italy. The explosion that sank his yacht may have been meant to settle some kind of score. His body was never found, and his children run his business now.”

A bell went off in Jaime’s head. “His children? How many did he have?”

“Two. His daughter, the director of the museum in Verona, and a son. The director couldn’t find much on him except that he ran many of his father’s businesses.”

“What kind of businesses?”

“A bit of everything: property, stocks, antiques. I bet his kids are set for life.”

Jaime pictured the man in the red kerchief pointing a gun at him on the deck of the
Artemis
.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve met them both,” he said, considering his words. “And for some reason, both of them tried to kill me.”

Roberto stopped his glass of beer halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The curse of Medusa, in all its splendor. What time do you start your shift?”

“What shift? For your information, I’ve been on vacation for the last twenty-six hours.”

“Good. How about coming with me to Verona? I have a sudden urge to visit the museum.”

“If it’s to question Carrera’s daughter, you’re out of luck. She doesn’t work there anymore. The director is now one Mirto Ugolini.”

“Damn.”

“Disappointing, to say the least. Wait a minute. Is this the woman from El Burgo de Osma? You said she’s a stunner.”

“She is. But she’s not someone you’d want to get close to.”

“Wait, I haven’t told you everything. There’s still the third stiff: Alvino Nascimbene.”

A shiver ran down Jaime’s spine. He stared at a point somewhere between his fries and his egg. Anyone observing him would’ve thought he wasn’t listening.

“Jaime? Hello?” Roberto sounded as concerned as a NASA technician calling a shuttle crew with whom he’d lost contact. “You still with me?”

“Alvino, you say?”

“Yeah. What? You know him too? May I ask why you’ve asked me to investigate a story you seem to have already written?”

“Alvino . . . What am I, an idiot?”

Roberto exhaled. “You don’t really want me to answer that.”

“Alvino Nascimbene. Alvino, with a
v
, not a
b
. It’s a name!”

“Of course it’s a name. It belongs to a guy who was a security guard at the Leoni Antique Center. When it burned down, he was left without a job. He was seen sniffing around the Petrarca, and he was interested in the Medusa, too. It seems to me she’s more like a siren than a gorgon, what with all the guys who were after her. Not long after the fire, Nascimbene got in an accident while driving on a country road. The car was unrecognizable, and so was his body. His family had been waiting for him at their house in the mountains. They learned about his death from the police. I don’t know about you, but this has all started to sound pretty fucking serious to me.”

“What family did he leave behind?”

“His wife and daughter. You want their names?” Roberto scrolled through his notes. “The wife’s named Isabel and the daughter’s Tamara. If you’re thinking you want to interview them, you’re luckier than the devil.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because Alvino Nascimbene died not that far away, on a country road in Extremadura. The family’s house is in Trujillo: just two hundred and fifty kilometers from here.”

27

Isabel Huelves was a sticklike, sickly-looking woman with disheveled hair, and she looked out at Jaime from the computer screen with eyes that appeared as though they’d never closed in sleep. Jaime judged her to be about fifty-five years old, and he was just two shy of the mark. “Isabel?” He spoke in a gentle voice and adjusted his webcam. “Good morning. Can you see me okay?”

“I can see you very well.” Her voice was raspy. “I didn’t realize when you called that you were so young. And so handsome.”

Jaime thanked her with a smile.

“I hope you can’t see the mess,” Isabel said. “I’ve just got up.”

“Everything’s perfect. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

“Well, it’s not every day a girl gets asked to do an interview, now is it? I hope you’ll paint me in a good light.”

The idea of holding a videoconference had been Isabel’s; she’d suggested it the previous day when Jaime called from the restaurant, while he was still at dinner with Roberto. He’d originally been tempted by the idea of a trip to Trujillo, but, in the end, he’d decided the effort was probably unnecessary, and he could learn all he needed via a video chat. “Nice painting,” Jaime said, referencing an abstract watercolor landscape hanging on the wall behind Isabel. “A very original use of color.”

“Thank you. It’s by . . . Alvino did it.”

“Your husband was an artist?”

She made a dismissive sound. “Pfff. Something like that. He liked art, anyway. He always dreamed of being a painter, though he said time and again it’d never make him rich. As you can see, he wasn’t wrong.”

“Had he been working at the Leoni Antique Center for long?”

Isabel hesitated. “Sorry, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at. Yesterday you didn’t explain exactly what . . .”

“Of course. Forgive me. I’m helping with the investigation of a series of freak incidents related to a sculpture of Medusa. I’m afraid your husband’s death is one of those events.”

Isabel’s eyes briefly widened as much as her heavy eyelids would allow. “Is this a joke?”

“I’m sorry if it sounds that way. Don’t worry, I’m an art historian, and I don’t believe in old wives’ tales or curses. But the fact is, two people besides your husband died not long after the statue arrived at the gallery where he worked. Had you not heard about this?”

“I knew about one other death. Poor Mr. Laszlo had been having trouble with his heart for a long time. Who was the other person?”

“His name was Angelo Carrera.”

For a couple of seconds, Isabel’s expression was impassive. Jaime suspected she’d taken some unknown substance to help relax her, but he noticed her eyes opened a fraction wider at this news.

“Angelo Carrera,” she said. “It’s been years since I heard that name.”

“You know him?”

“How could I not? He’s the bastard who abandoned my husband!”

Jaime was shocked by the intensity of her answer, but tried not to react. “Isabel, I hope I’m not making you feel uncomfortable with this conversation. I just—”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t thought about this business for a long time. You’ve caught me a bit off guard.”

“Angelo Carrera was a regular visitor to the center where Alvino worked. Years later he bought the sculpture, and, soon afterward, he disappeared in an accident at sea.”

“Alvino mentioned Carrera to me only once, not long after we left Rome and relocated to Spain.”

“You’re Spanish, right?”

“I am. Alvino was Italian.” Isabel sighed. “Alvino’s life was like a horror story.”

“How come?”

“Because it ended as unfortunately as it began. You’re a writer; you should write his life story.”

“You’ll need to tell me it first.”

“Tragic,” Isabel said. “Miserably tragic. How else is there to describe someone who came into this world because an American soldier raped a Sicilian woman?”

Jaime could see Isabel registering the shock on his face.

“It happened in 1943, when the US Army landed on the south coast of Sicily. Near Barcellona Pozzo di Gotto, one of the soldiers murdered a fisherman and raped the fisherman’s wife. The soldier was drunk and almost beat her to death. He might have, if a young Sicilian hadn’t appeared and put two bullets in him. The Sicilian carried the woman back to his home, where he cared for her until she recovered. The woman stayed with the young man who’d saved her, and they fell in love. They married in Palermo. The woman was named Giulia Nicosia, and the man was Angelo Carrera.”

Jaime listened to the story without blinking. He worried that they’d lose their Internet connection just as things were starting to get interesting. Isabel told him that in May 1944, the son who’d been conceived during that rape was born. Both Giulia and her husband accepted the child as their own.

“They called him Alvino, in honor of Giulia’s murdered husband, and for a year he brought joy to their home. Then one day, without warning, Angelo abandoned his wife and child.”

“Where did he go?”

“No one ever knew. The war was over; maybe he decided he wanted to do other things in some other part of the world. After he left, Giulia fell into a deep depression and suffered from panic attacks that made little Alvino’s life a nightmare.”

“In what way?” Jaime asked.

“She started to mistreat him. Her rage over the boy’s father, the man who’d killed her husband and raped her in front of her neighbors, was mixed with her resentment toward the man who first saved her life and then left her. Alvino told me that his childhood was horrific. Some nights his mother would come into his room and beat him because he reminded her of the bastard who’d ruined her life. One night she hit him on the head with a ladle again and again, nearly killing him.”

The breakfast he’d eaten earlier was churning in Jaime’s stomach, and he changed positions in an attempt to hide his discomfort. “No one noticed what was happening?” he asked.

“They did. The neighbors called the police. They arrested Giulia, and Alvino was removed from her custody and later adopted by a young couple who’d been unable to have children: Giuseppe and Mercedes.”

“So there was a happy ending after all that tragedy,” Jaime said.

“Well, more or less. With his new parents, Alvino lived a peaceful life again. He knew at least that he wouldn’t wake up to a hysterical woman screaming at him and beating him. But those terrible years still took a toll.”

“In what way?”

“When Alvino was eighteen, his parents explained his origins to him. There was no need to do so, but they did, and this revelation took Alvino back to his traumatic past and brought out a fury that he’d never experienced before. He understood that he could never get revenge on his biological father, so he made it his mission to find the man who’d left him and his mother. After much searching, he finally found Angelo Carrera living in a mansion, surrounded by luxury and servants. This enraged him even more, and their reunion turned into an exchange of insults and threats. Carrera sent some men after Alvino.” Isabel swallowed hard. “They beat him nearly to death. After he got out of the hospital, he returned to his parents’ home, but they decided he wasn’t safe in Sicily. They decided to move to Spain, where Mercedes, his adoptive mother, was from.”

“And that’s where he met you.”

“At art school, yes. He was taking a course in art curation. We lived in Spain for a while, but Alvino eventually decided he needed to return to Italy. I went with him, and he found work as head of security at the Leoni Center.”

“Until it burned down,” Jaime said.

“After that, we came back to Spain. Alvino started working for a private security agency and things were going well. We had a few happy years. Until . . .” Isabel’s eyes welled up.

“Did Alvino hear anything more about Angelo Carrera?” Jaime couldn’t help asking.

“Not after we returned to Spain, no. He was focused on just us. He went to work every day, and that was it. Sometimes they changed his hours, but he never complained. All he wanted was to be able to support our family. Everything was fine between Alvino and me. We had our girl, he had his job. After some years, we were able to plan a vacation, and that was when it happened. I still can’t believe it.”

“Did you notice anything strange about Alvino before the . . . ?”

“No. Well, he seemed a bit stressed, but I figured it was just work. He had spent months fighting for permission to go on vacation.”

Jaime’s eyes fell on a framed photograph in the background, behind Isabel. Though the photo was too far away for him to see it clearly, he could just make out a plumper and healthier-looking version of her standing with a splendid smile on her face and her arm around a tall, good-looking man. Even from a distance, the man’s bright eyes stood out. A little girl hugged his leg and smiled at the camera.

“How did it happen?”

“This house belonged to my parents, and we often came here on vacation. Alvino had been offered work as a security instructor in Paris, and he took it without thinking. When his assignment was over, he told us he was coming back and said to wait for him here.”

“Who was the last person to see him alive?”

“In Paris? I have no idea. The only person he knew in France was Dr. André Fournier, a frequent visitor to the Leoni Center, but I don’t think they saw each other. Alvino was just a security guard; he didn’t have much contact with patrons. His adoptive mother, Mercedes, told me Alvino had visited her on the day he left for Paris.”

“Did she say anything about it? Had she noticed anything strange?”

“No. But one thing she said surprised me.” Isabel closed her eyes partially, as if squinting back at the memory through a mist. “It didn’t seem to strike her as odd, but I . . . Well, the day he went to visit, he asked his mother for money. He didn’t say what it was for.”

“And what do you think?”

“I thought it could have been for his accommodations in Paris, but he told me before he left that the company was covering expenses. The strange thing is, the money was never accounted for.”

“How much money was it?”

“I don’t remember exactly. But a lot. Enough that his mother remarked on it.”

“Could he have owed the money to someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he was involved in something. I’m sorry to ask, Isabel, but I have to explore this from all angles.”

“Alvino never did anything illegal. He didn’t have any contacts in the mafia, if that’s what you’re suggesting. He wasn’t exactly passionate about his work, but he took it seriously. He loved us and did everything he could to provide for us. He wouldn’t have done anything risky without talking to us about it.”

Jaime wasn’t so sure, but decided not to keep pushing. It suddenly struck him that it was because the circumstances of her husband’s death did not add up that Isabel had let herself fall into such decline. He promised himself he would discover the truth. “What’s that?” he asked. “Behind the family photo.”

Isabel turned around and put her hand on the item that had caught Jaime’s attention. It was a portrait of Isabel, done in charcoal. With just a few strokes the artist had manage to capture her features and melancholic expression.

“Alvino did it,” she said, sounding sad. “He started drawing as a boy at boarding school, and he never gave it up.”

“It’s very good,” said Jaime.

“That was just a sketch. Perhaps
Arcadia
could do a feature on his work.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged.” Jaime rubbed his hands together as he considered what he was about to say. “Isabel, I’m going to ask something that might sound very strange, but I need you to answer me honestly. Do you think there’s any chance Alvino is alive?”

The question not only surprised the woman—it infuriated her.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know it’s difficult to consider such a thing. But the bad blood between Alvino Nascimbene and the Carrera family was too strong for it to have simply ended. One of Carrera’s sons died recently, and there are those who believe Alvino might have had something to do with it.”

“Who would believe that?”

“The son himself. When he died, he said Alvino’s name.”

“Well, I’m sorry for his death, but either he was badly mistaken, or he had a very sick sense of humor.”

Isabel disconnected the chat as quickly as she could, leaving Jaime staring at an empty screen. He glanced longingly at his coffee machine and got up from his chair. Maybe a café solo would help him process all he’d just heard. As he always said, there was plenty there for a story. He needed to let the information sink in, and he decided to devote the rest of the morning to making sense of it.

He hadn’t the slightest suspicion that he was about to receive the call that would change everything.