Murder at the National Gallery (7 page)

“I’ll see if Mrs. Smith is free to join you on the trip and have her coordinate with your office. Thank you for all your good work, Luther. Not only do the trustees appreciate it, you have my personal gratitude.” With that he was gone, leaving Mason standing alone in the middle of the office, thinking:
What happened to his concern about the budget?

The National Gallery’s Office of Special Events, always busy choreographing its many social events, grappled with planning a black-tie dinner that had been injected into the schedule at the last minute. Ordinarily, only one dinner would be held to celebrate an upcoming exhibition at which the lenders of works, the trustees, and an assortment of government and industry movers and shakers in the D.C. arts scene would gather. But the trustees, prodded by Courtney Whitney, decided to host a second bash in advance of the official opening dinner and had persuaded the corporate sponsors to foot the additional bill.

Mary Helm, head of the department, met with representatives of the outside catering service. The menu would, of course, be Italian, without reverting to gastronomic clichés. A three-course Venetian meal was chosen because the caterer felt it would be more delicate, subtle, and lighter than fare from other regions. Each dish would be renamed to coincide with the theme of a Caravaggio painting—Antipasto
Medusa
,
Sleeping Cupid
Baked Scallops, Smoked Lamb Soup
Salome
, Veal with Tuna Sauce
Emmaus
, and for dessert,
Boy with a Basket of Fruit
, with its suggestion of cannibalism. Finding subject matter in Caravaggio’s works not dealing with crucifixion, incest, or murder was a challenge.

Raul Sebastian, head of the Gallery’s music department, was given the assignment of providing appropriate background sounds during the cocktail hour. Sebastian was a man
known not only for his musical expertise, but for never allowing a simple project to remain that way. Despite the minor role music would play, he agonized over the choice of Italian composers to feature. Italian Renaissance? Or Baroque, with more music from which to choose? Renaissance composer Don Carlo Gesualdo, whose madrigals and motets were primarily vocal, but whose personal life paralleled Caravaggio’s? Gesualdo had had his unfaithful wife and her lover murdered. The Baroque Jean-Baptiste Lully, born in Florence but who wrote French opera? Sebastian pointed out in a memo that Lully died of gangrene after accidentally smashing his foot with a staff used to pound the floor when his musicians did not keep correct time.

“How about Vivaldi?” Mary Helm suggested.

Sebastian dismissed her suggestion. “Why do you suggest him? Because he wrote four hundred concerti? No, Vivaldi wrote one concerto four hundred times!”

He settled on Corelli and instructed a chamber group culled from the National Symphony to rehearse sections from the composer’s twelve concerti, as well as
La Folia
, to be performed by a violinist with piano accompaniment. So much for background music, unlikely to be heard consecutively or attentively by anyone other than the musicians.

“Mac, it’s me.”

“I gathered as much,” Smith said to his wife after taking her call in his home office. “Recognize your voice anywhere, Annabel.”

“What a relief. Mac, I just received a call from Court Whitney at the National Gallery. He wants me to accompany Luther Mason—tomorrow—on a trip to Italy. Think you can break loose?”

“For some reason, Annabel, I always have trouble with people who give me too much advance notice. Tomorrow? Can’t. That lecture I made the mistake of agreeing to is coming up fast. I’ll need every minute I can steal to get ready.”

“Damn.”

“I suggest you go, discharge your official duties on behalf of
the United States, enjoy yourself, buy something pretty on the via Condotti, and hurry home to me.”

“Why do you always make it so difficult for me to live my life?”

“Because I love you. You say you leave tomorrow? Let’s celebrate with dinner out tonight. I don’t suppose you’d be in the mood for Italian food?”

“I’m
always
in the mood for Italian food.”

“Sounds like a corny lyric to a Dean Martin song. Soon you’ll be up to your pretty neck in the real thing.”

“You’re right. Let’s make it sushi.”

“You know I don’t eat sushi.”

“But I do. We could go to Sapporo. The one on M, not Pennsylvania. I can satisfy my sudden urge, and you can have tempura.”

“Seven?”

“Let’s make it six. I have to pack.”

“Okay.”

“Mac, one request while I’m gone.”

“Yes?”

“No
tatuaggi
.”

“I can’t get a tattoo while you’re gone? I was thinking of a heart with your initials in it.”

“Were you?”

“Or maybe a depiction of one of Caravaggio’s paintings.”

“Uh huh.”

“Which do you prefer, Annabel?”

“Make one permanent mark on that skin I love to touch and you’re the former Mackensie Smith.”

“You have a talent for taking all the joy out of a man’s life, Annabel. See you at six. And by the way, I love you.”

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Annabel told Luther Mason. It was an hour into their flight to Rome, and they’d been talking since leaving Washington.

“Yes. I really should get this written before we arrive. I give the lecture the day after we get back. Annabel, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to have you with us.”

“I’m delighted to be with you. I just wish Mac had been able to come.”

“Another time, I’m sure.” He opened his briefcase, put on his glasses, and went back to writing his lecture on the influence on Caravaggio of Peterzano, Figino, and Jacopo and Francesco Bassano.

As Annabel browsed through a magazine, she cast an occasional glance at her companion. The more time she spent with Luther Mason, the more he impressed her. Not only was he an expert on Caravaggio, his enthusiasm for the subject was contagious. He’d traced the artist’s life for her in considerable detail, linking his works to periods in his tumultuous personal life.

On her way back from a restroom visit, Donald Fechter beckoned her to the empty seat next to him. Fechter had come to the field of art conservation from a background that included a Ph.D. in chemistry and a stint as a college professor. To Annabel, he looked more the rugged, middle-aged pugilist than a man who’d spent his life in intellectual pursuits.
That, as she eventually learned, his favorite leisure pursuits were mountain climbing and white-water rafting came as no surprise.

Fechter proved to be as engaging a seat companion as Luther Mason had been for the first hour. By the time the captain announced they were beginning their descent, Annabel had learned a bewildering amount about conservation and the National Gallery’s approach to it. Fechter supervised fifty-four specialists in matting and framing, textiles, oil, and watercolor, three-dimensional objects, and pure science. He was accompanied on this trip by two assistants, carrying with them a variety of scientific instruments to measure humidity levels and pH factors, a portable X-ray machine, and a book Fechter claimed was his traveling “bible,”
The World Weather Book
.

Carlo Giliberti met them at Leonardo da Vinci Airport and deftly navigated their passage through Customs. Mason sat in the front passenger seat of the chauffeured Mercedes. Annabel, Fechter, and Giliberti shared the roomy rear seat. Fechter’s two assistants were driven into the city in a rented minivan.

Annabel found Carlo Giliberti to be charming—maybe a little too charming—
insincero
, Italian for not always meaning so many flowery compliments. Yet she enjoyed his company, his enthusiastic chatter, his overt love of Rome and its people. He assured Annabel that he and the car and driver were at her disposal and that he would take personal pleasure in escorting her about the city during any free moments.

It didn’t take Annabel long to discover that she would have plenty of free moments in which to take him up on his offer. After a much-needed nap in the Valadier Hotel, she accompanied Mason to the noon meeting at the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, lender to the exhibition of
The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew
and
The Inspiration of Saint Matthew
. They were there less than a half hour. From what Annabel observed, everything had been worked out long ago; the visit was pro forma, the conversation with church elders nothing more than a pleasant exchange about Caravaggio’s importance.

Next, they went to the Galleria Doria-Pamphili, where Caravaggio’s
Penitent Mary Magdalene
hung. There, too,
Caravaggio’s impact upon art was briefly discussed, along with the splendid weather Rome was enjoying, the Italian soccer team’s chances in the World Cup, and the Pope’s book and its multimillion-dollar advance and best-seller status.

That was it for the first day. Tomorrow, Mason told her, they would meet briefly with officials at the Galleria Borghese. The rest of the time in Rome was Annabel’s to enjoy. Because Mason was preoccupied with what he termed “personal commitments,” and Don Fechter was busy making final inspections of works to be crated and sent to Washington, as well as preparing for his trip to Malta, Annabel took Giliberti up on his offer to play escort. She’d expressed interest during the ride in from the airport at seeing the sculptures in the Museo Torlonia, one of the largest private collections of antiquities in Europe, and open by appointment only.
“Non è problema,”
Giliberti said, a favorite expression, and they spent a pleasant two hours admiring the collection.

That evening, neither Mason nor Fechter was available for dinner, so Annabel dined with Carlo at Hostaria L’Angoletto, a small restaurant near the Pantheon. He was twenty minutes late but contrite. Annabel said she wanted to eat light, but Carlo would not hear of it. “I will help you finish what you don’t eat,” he said, ordering
puntarelle
—crunchy stalks of chicory dressed with anchovies, crushed garlic, olive oil, and vinegar;
peperonata
—chicken stewed in roasted peppers; and two pasta dishes. A satisfying bottle of a red Torre Ercolana, from the hills of the Castelli Romani southeast of the city, nicely complemented the meal.

He kissed her hand in front of the hotel and said he would pick her up the next morning in time for her eleven o’clock meeting. Annabel made a mental note: Carlo at 11:00
A.M
. Or 11:15. The minute she was alone in her room, she called her husband.

“What time is it there?” he asked.

“About eleven. How are you?”

“Fine. I had a good day. One of my students actually made sense this morning. Oh, I took Rufus to the vet. He twisted his
hind leg. Nothing broken but he’s hobbling.” Rufus was their blue Great Dane.

“Poor fella. Give him a hug for me.”

“Hugging Rufus could put
me
in the hospital. Besides, you haven’t been away
that
long.”

She filled him in on her day in Rome.

“Sounds like all play, no work,” he said.

“Just about. Don Fechter seems busy. Luther? Well, he’s busy with lots of personal things.” She told him about her dinner with Carlo.

“Watch the hands, Annabel.”

“He’s a gentleman, Mac. The eyes are in constant motion but …”

“Carole Aprile called. Wondered if I’d heard from you.”

“Anything urgent?”

“No. I said we’d be talking.”

“I’ll call her before I go to bed. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“You haven’t gotten any tattoos, have you?”

“Just one, a two-foot heart with your initials.”

“Where?”

“Show you when you get home. Have a good sleep and enjoy the rest of your time there.”

Annabel was pleased to find Carole at home. “Mac said you called,” she said.

“Yes. How’s Rome?”

“Lovely. I’m not sure why I’m here but—”

“Why?”

Annabel laughed. “A few brief meetings that seem to accomplish nothing, or not much, and lots of free time.”

“I talked to Court Whitney today. He raised concerns about the budget for the Caravaggio show.”

“And here I am in Rome on taxpayer money. I hope I don’t end up being called a ‘junket junkie’ in some exposé.”

“No fear of that. Look, Annabel, while you’re there, keep a mental note of how much actual time is spent on business.”

“I’m uncomfortable being in that position, Carole. I’d make a bad whistle-blower.”

“I’m not asking you to do that. The Gallery’s budget really isn’t my concern. It’s just that Court says Luther Mason is virtually commuting to Italy these days.”

“Well, it’s his exhibition. I’d be the last person to second-guess him.”

“Of course not. Is everything going smoothly with the lenders?”

“Seems to be. Almost too smoothly.”

“The government officials involved?”

“I haven’t met any, except for Carlo Giliberti.”

“Cultural attaché. I understand he’s been immeasurably helpful.”

“Speaking of smooth, he sure knows his way around.”

“I’m sure he does. Anyway, thanks for calling. Maybe we can catch up for coffee when you get back.”

“Love it. Good night, Carole. Speak with you soon.” Following the cursory meeting the following midmorning at Galleria Borghese, Mason excused himself—lunch with an old friend—and Annabel set off with Giliberti and their driver. She bought herself a box of elegant stationery, a copy of the art magazine
FMR
at Franco Maria Ricci, and handmade beeswax candles for Christmas gifts at Pisoni. After considerable debate, she also decided to buy Mac a nineteenth-century walking stick that had caught her eye in the window of La Gazza Ladra. Mac never carried a walking stick but had collected a half-dozen of them that he proudly displayed in an antique umbrella stand.

They ended the afternoon browsing art galleries on via Margutta. As they admired a series of Cubist nudes by a young Italian artist, Giliberti whispered,
“E più bella di tutti questi quadri.”

“Pardon?” said Annabel.

“You are more beautiful than all these pictures.”