Robert Barnard: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 805 & 806, September/October 2008

Jim promptly strangled on his wine and Elliott jumped up to pound on his back.

“How on earth do you know that?” Olson gasped when he could speak again.

She shrugged. “The way he looked at her in the pool. And his reaction to something Jensen said tonight.”

“They’ve been very discreet.” Jim coughed again and wiped his eyes with the napkin she handed him. “I make it a point not to notice things like that, but Sabra did pay the extra supplement so that she wouldn’t have to share a room.”

“So why does Alexa hate him so much?” Sigrid persisted. “Surely it’s not just because he’s never on time or hogs the best seat on the van.”

Olson looked to Buntrock for help.

“Sorry, Jim,” Elliott said. “What can I say? She used to be a cop.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Olson said. “But it’s not something I can discuss and I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t speculate about it to the others.”

Sigrid regarded him a long moment, then nodded acquiescence.

Their talk soon turned to reminiscences of bygone years and people Sigrid had never met: “You saw where The Loaded Brush ran a long interview with Lou Brown?” and “What’s happening with Tang Cai?”

“He lucked into a group show at the Penelope Gallery this fall,” Elliott said. Sigrid tried to look interested as they discussed whether the Chinese artist’s visa would expire before he could establish a name for himself in the States.

“What about that kid who did those intelligent lithographs? Lynn Palmour? What’s she up to these days?”

Olson looked down into his glass and gently swirled the wine. “She took an overdose last month.”

“What? Why?”

“Remember how emotionally fragile she was? Her only brother was killed in a car crash over the holidays and then the one-woman show she was promised fell through.”

Elliott shook his head. “What a waste. She was a damn fine artist with a lot of potential.”

“Yeah,” Olson said and held out his glass for a refill.

As their talk turned to tomorrow’s schedule, Sigrid quit trying to suppress her yawns and announced that she was going to bed.

Even with unscreened windows, Sigrid slept unmolested by mosquitoes and emerged from her bedroom rested and refreshed next day. After an early swim in the deserted pool, she had intended to go straight back to the apartment, but the morning was so beautiful and the surroundings so peaceful that she paused in front of the grotto and looked out over the Tuscan landscape. In the far distance, a tractor labored up and down the steep hillside through row after row of grapevines. Nearer to the castle grounds were groves of greenish gray trees that Elliott had identified as olives. High overhead, swallows darted in and out of mud nests beneath the eaves of the castle and lacy mounds of red and pink geraniums tumbled over the edge of the terrace above.

Despite the emotional undercurrents swirling around last night, it was nothing to do with her and she was glad that Elliott had insisted on their coming. The pool was worth putting up with a few social niceties. Today was Friday. She would go hear him speak about those frescoes, then take herself back to the pool or hole up in their apartment with a book. On Monday they would return to Florence, retrieve the paintings, and, with a little luck, be back on a plane to New York by Tuesday.

As she passed the grotto, something caught her eye. She stopped short, looked closer, and almost laughed out loud. She had missed it coming down, but now she saw that one of the statues wore a gilded devil mask and leered at Leto with golden malevolence.

Smiling to herself, Sigrid climbed the steps and crossed the loggia to her stairwell, where the aroma of bacon drifted down to meet her.

“Just in time,” Elliott said, turning from the stovetop. “Come see how orange these egg yolks are! Laid by real free-range chickens, eating real grass.”

Suddenly ravenous, Sigrid dutifully admired them, then quickly changed into dry clothes. Elliott filled their plates with buttered toast, Italian bacon, and scrambled eggs, and as they ate, she told him about seeing Hugh Jensen’s mask on one of the grotto statues. “Wonder who put it there?”

“My money’s on Darryl. He had the best chance, and Jim says he has a quirky sense of humor.”

Sigrid smiled, remembering the mischievous grin Darryl had given Hugh while explaining what the zanni mask signified.

At ten o’clock, Sigrid and Elliott met Jim Olson in the large reception office off the main loggia. Several mismatched office desks had been arranged in a reverse L and castle business was conducted from the long side. The short side held a second computer for guests who could not bear to go too long without Internet access. The small staff doubled as needed around the castle and the attractive young woman on duty that morning was casually dressed in serviceable jeans and tank top. She plucked a large key from one of the pigeonholes on the rack behind her. It was five or six inches long and made of iron.

Olson hefted it in his hand. “It always feels weird to hold a key that the Sitwells must have used.”

“Sitwells?” asked Sigrid, who owned a large collection of poetry. “Edith Sitwell?”

“Didn’t you know?” said Elliott. “Her father bought the castle around nineteen ten. He’s the one who commissioned the Severini frescoes. There are stories that her brothers wanted Picasso, but the old man had met and liked Severini and since it was his money...”

A few minutes later, he was repeating the same words to the group who had gathered in the Jensen apartment. Sigrid noticed that Hugh’s diavolo mask was now on the table by the entrance hall, although nothing was said about it while Elliott finished his introductory remarks. “If Picasso had taken the commission, it would have no doubt been a cubist marvel, but by nineteen twenty-two, Severini had abandoned futurism, so now we get this!”

He turned the iron key in the plain wooden door and threw it open with a dramatic flourish. As the others crowded in behind him, their admiration for the bright and colorful masked harlequins that covered the walls of the small gallery quickly changed to laughter.

At the end of the room, Darryl Jensen lounged on the floor, his back against the wall. He wore the long-nosed mask he had bought in Venice and his dark blue pajamas that echoed the pantaloons in the frescoes.

“How funny, Darryl!” said Alexa Hayne. “You look as if you could just reach up and take some fruit from that painted bowl.”

“You idiot,” Hugh said, as if annoyed that his cousin had thought of the joke first. “Here, let me give you a hand up.”

He reached for Darryl’s hand, but there was no response.

“Darryl? Quit clowning.”

“What’s wrong?” someone cried as he slumped over. “Is he hurt?”

Sigrid pushed past the babbling art lovers and quickly knelt to feel for the man’s pulse.

“Everybody out,” she said. “Now!”

There was such authority in her voice that even Hugh obeyed.

“Is he dead?” Jim Olson asked, his face ashen.

“Yes,” she said succinctly.

To Sigrid’s bemusement, three separate police authorities responded to the call. First came the municipal officers, followed by the state and provincial.

It was almost one o’clock before they sorted out who had jurisdiction and Sigrid was summoned to a room off the castle’s courtyard.

“My apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Harald.” The big man in a rumpled brown suit spoke with a distinct English accent. “I’m Inspector Giordano of the state police.” He introduced his associates, invited her to be seated at the table he was using as a desk, and looked at her doubtfully. “I’m told you’re a police detective yourself? In New York?”