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Slamming the brakes on my paranoia and suspicion, I forced myself to think rationally about what I’d learned. Nick had a fellowship in Vienna. When he left, I’d been under the impression that he would be starting that fellowship right away, but he hadn’t actually said that.
Did he purposely indicate it, or was it simply my assumption? It would make sense that he’d go early, but three weeks?
I’d assumed the academy would provide housing, so it wasn’t like he would need to spend that time finding a place—if my assumption was correct. And Professor Gildersleeve would have known if Nick was on the premises, even if his teaching duties had yet to start. Perhaps Nick wanted to be a tourist before getting to work, which was something I would expect of him.
But why didn’t he say so? Why didn’t he invite me along?
There was another possibility to consider: that he had yet to leave for Vienna and was still in San Marco. That possibility was disturbing, because at the very least, it meant he’d lied to me. He was the kind of man who would tell me if he needed space, but then again, perhaps he was concerned about what I would think if he asked for space just prior to spending a semester out of the country. My assumption was that we had a growing relationship, but maybe he thought otherwise. He’d said so and left a voicemail about taking the relationship to another level, but maybe that was just lip service. That was a lot of maybes. There was another maybe to consider, the one where he could be cheating on me and wanted to spend time with her before leaving.
There was even a worse option, the worst possible—not only was he still in San Marco, but he was also Michelangelo. If so, why would he perpetrate that kind of violence? The only thing I could think of was that he hadn’t escaped his terrible childhood.
I wondered if I should share my suspicions with Baker and Ortega, then I remembered how stubborn Ortega had been about checking Baker’s alibis. He’d known it—could feel it—that Baker wasn’t Michelangelo. And just like them, when it came down to it, I knew it couldn’t be Nick. I would call and demand to know what was going on. My thumb hovered over the call button, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I determined to call him, just not now.
So much was percolating in my brain that I didn’t even bother trying to get back to sleep. My one job had been completed, and as much as I would have liked to work on the Michelangelo case, that was, as Professor Gildersleeve might say, verboten. I decided to take the day off and putter about the house. So, at four in the morning, I started in on housework. Special Agent Carter, my overnight babysitter, came to the door, saying he’d seen the lights and wanted to check on me. After I told him I couldn’t sleep, I made him a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
Before he took the goodies back to the car, he said, “You’re spoiling me, Lise.”
The act of cleaning my house was therapeutic, and eventually, I stopped agonizing so much over Nick. I told myself there was a good reason he hadn’t told me everything in minute detail. As his girlfriend, I should trust him. And I would have. Going early to be a tourist was a very Nick thing to do, and I had to remember that. The next time we talked, I could tell him about calling the academy. I had no doubt that we could work the whole thing out. He would understand that everything going on had put me on edge. He would understand why I had twisted myself in knots.
I yawned long and deep. My sleepless night was catching up with me, so I took Virgil Flowers to bed, read half a page, and fell asleep.
When I woke up after noon, I decided that instead of worrying about some misguided suspicion that the man I loved was a sexual sadist and murderer, which seemed ludicrous in the full light of day, I would celebrate the successful completion of an interesting case that had earned me many thousands of dollars.
I got my phone and called Gabe. “We’re celebrating tonight.”
“Excellent,” Gabe answered, on the phone in his office at the university. “So are we celebrating anything in particular, or just using it as an excuse to eat, drink, and be merry?”
“I recovered The Floating Ballerina, in which you played a part. May you forever be known as Mr. X.”
“Lise, that’s excellent. This party, your place or mine?”
“How about you host it, and I’ll cook it? I love your kitchen.” Gabe was a true foodie. His kitchen featured a bookcase with countless cookbooks, and he had the best of the best when it came to appliances, including a Cornue CornuFé range.
“Seafood fra diavolo?”
“Host’s choice.”
“Fra diavolo it is. And some crusty bread?”
“Crusty bread for a crusty guy.”
“And proud of it,” Gabe said.
Then I thought why the hell not make it a dinner party. “Mind if I bring a friend? Someone I think you’ll enjoy meeting.”
“The more, the merrier,” Gabe said.
Ending that call, I made another.
“Delve Gallery,” Adolph answered in his dulcet tone. After my invitation, he said, “I’ll bring some Chianti. Should go nicely with your dish.”
I went shopping, and Special Agent Teague pushed the shopping cart. After deciding on big sea scallops and fresh-off-the-boat Mayport shrimp, I flipped a coin and ended up getting fettuccini instead of angel hair. We left the produce aisle with tomatoes, scallions, onions, hot and sweet peppers, garlic, Italian parsley, and cilantro. A key ingredient was crushed red pepper flakes, but I knew Gabe always had that fiery spice on hand. En route to Gabe’s, I stopped at Genelle’s for a long loaf of crusty bread, which I would bake with butter and garlic.
At six on the button, I stood on Gabe’s stoop with both arms filled with groceries, and I used my nose to ring his doorbell. I gave Teague a chin nod as he sat in his FBI-issued sedan at the curb. Gabe’s house was a red-brick split-level built in the sixties. Gabe opened his door and greeted me. He wore off-white cotton pants and a long-sleeve white V-neck T-shirt that was tight enough to show he was in great shape for a man his age. After a peck on the cheek, he glanced past me at the dark sedan at the curb and waved at Special Agent Teague.
“Want to invite your bodyguard?” Gabe asked.
“I think he’s happier watching from afar.”
“Aren’t you bringing a guest?”
“He’s meeting us here.”
Gabe took half my load and led me into his house. Framed artwork covered the walls. Not every piece held value, but many did. He’d once told Nick and me that he had a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of insurance for his collection. My favorites were the ones Gabe had painted. Yes, he was an art history nerd, but he also had talent and honed skill. He had no chosen medium when it came to paint; he used oils, acrylics, watercolors, or whatever fitted his mood. His landscape and still life works were beautiful, but I preferred his abstract work. Those works were bold and insightful. Good things to have in an abstract painting. With its dark wood and leather furnishings, the place screamed “bachelor.” We passed by the sunken living room, a testament to sixties architecture, and went into the kitchen. This was the room where we spent ninety-nine percent of the time when Nick and I visited.
As I unloaded the groceries, Gabe poured us each a couple fingers of WhistlePig Whiskey. He had an ice tray that made those big pieces of ice especially for whiskey, bourbon, and rye.
“Cheers, Lise. And congratulations,” Gabe said, holding out his glass.
We clinked and sipped.
After relishing the whiskey, I said, “Can I ask you something?”
Noting the reticence in my tone, Gabe put down his glass. “Of course.”
“Did you know that Nick’s fellowship doesn’t start for another two weeks?”
“Really? But he’s been gone for—what—a week?”
“You arranged it for him. That’s why I was wondering if you knew he hadn’t started yet.”
“I knew it was this semester, but no, I didn’t make note of the specific dates. Why’d he go so early?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t talked to him about it?”
“Not about that, no. And now I’m feeling like a covetous, green-eyed girlfriend, which I hate. All I can figure it he left early so he could sightsee before the fellowship starts.”
“That sounds like Nick.”
“But why wouldn’t he say something?”
Gabe picked up his glass and took another swallow. “Let me preface this by saying I’m not taking sides here. Nick, obviously, waited too long to tell you about the fellowship. You, in turn, got angry at Nick for telling you at the last minute. Maybe, just maybe, Nick was too scared to tell you he was leaving early so he could see the sights.”
I grabbed the last grocery bag and unloaded it. The fact that Nick might have been too scared to tell me was grating, but it was a plausible explanation—and I was desperate for relief.
The doorbell chimed.
“Adolph’s here,” I said, smiling.
“Adolph?” Gabe looked confused.
“The guest I told you I was inviting.”
“But Adolph?” He shrugged and held up his glass for another toast. “To new acquaintances.” Our glasses met, we drained them, and I followed Gabe to the door so as to make introductions.
Adolph stood on the stoop in a white aloha shirt, white slacks, and his bright Crocs. He held out a bottle. “Barone Ricasoli Castello de Brolio Chianti—” I thought he was finished, but he took a breath and continued. “Classico Gran Selezione.”
I grinned at the Italian accent he’d thrown in. “You’re talking about the wine, right?”
Smiling back, Adolph added, “A 2013. Great vintage.”
“Well, if word count has anything to do with quality, that’s one great Chianti.” Gabe held out his hand. “Gabe Turner.”
Adolph transferred the wine bottle to his left hand, and they shook. “Adolph Hurst. A pleasure to meet you.”
We got to the kitchen, and Adolph put the bottle on the counter and went to the bathroom to freshen up.
Once he disappeared down the hall, Gabe leaned toward me and whispered, “Oh my God. He looks just like Sidney Greenstreet.”
“Yep.”
Adolph passed on the whiskey and had a glass of water instead, saying the wine would wait until dinner.
Both men were outgoing art aficionados and artists, so I knew they would either get along or end up butting heads. Either would be entertaining. I assigned them the chore of making the salad. As they worked, they talked about everything from their education to masterpieces they’d encountered and appraised. Then they moved on to artists they’d known and those they considered hacks. At times, it sounded like a couple of old gossips at the clothesline. My fra diavolo recipe took over an hour, though forty-five minutes of that was simply letting the sauce simmer. During that time, I doubted I said more than a dozen words, which was not like me at all. But I had a good time watching my old friend Gabe getting to know my new friend Adolph.
I got the bread and sliced it lengthwise before slathering on butter and minced garlic. “Ten minutes until dinner,” I announced, putting the bread in the oven.
“Then let me uncork our Chianti,” Adolph said.
Gabe passed him his opener, and Adolph pulled it with a pleasing pop. Adolph smelled the cork, eyes alight, and passed it to me. It smelled like any other wine cork I’d ever sniffed, but for his sake, I gave an appreciative “Mmm.”
Instead of Gabe’s kitchen table, we sat on bar stools at the kitchen counter.
“Ta-daaa,” Gabe said, placing the bowl of salad in reach.
“Looks good.” I placed steaming fettuccini into bowls. As I ladled on the fra diavolo sauce, I made sure everyone got four big shrimp and two sea scallops.
As we sat, Adolph asked if he could say grace. We held hands as he proceeded with a short prayer that included thanks that he had found two new friends. At the amen, I let go of their hands, though I noticed something on the sleeve of Gabe’s shirt.
Laughing, I pointed. “Gabe, you of all people should know not to wear white if there’s red sauce or red wine nearby.”
He saw the stain at his wrist. “Aw, crap. You’re right.” He stood, checked his slacks, and added, “Hey, at least gravity didn’t drop anything on my pants. Be right back.”
During Gabe’s absence, I took the bread from the oven and sliced it into thick pieces that were rich with the aroma of garlic. Adolph told me some more amusing anecdotes about following Ricky into the Hunker Down Tavern.
“How’s this?” Gabe asked on his return. He stood with his arms held out, dressed in a long-sleeve black shirt and black slacks.
“You’re dressed like a priest,” I said.
“In that case, Adolph’s earlier prayer still counts. Let’s eat.”
We tucked in. I loved fra diavolo and took to it like a shark to a seal.
I looked at the two men, thinking we were having a grand evening. Then I felt a slight pang of sadness. Only one thing was missing to make the dinner party ideal, and that was Nick. My suspicions and his not telling me he was going to Vienna early proved we still had a lot of work ahead of us. But Nick was worth the effort, and I thought he would feel the same of me. I noticed Gabe smiling at me in a fatherly fashion.
Knowing me almost as well as my boyfriend, Gabe held up his wineglass and said, “To our missing comrade, Nick.”
I smiled back, eyes tearing. “Aww, thanks, Gabe.”
We clinked glasses, and Adolph said, “I am eager to make his acquaintance.”
After our toast, Adolph refilled the glasses. “And a toast to our very own private eye, Lise Norwood, and a successful close to the case of The Floating Ballerina.”
I was proud that, with the help of friends, I’d found it and returned it to its rightful owner. I detailed what happened for the boys, and they laughed at the account of Eve knocking Ricky Stephens’s feet out from under him with a perfectly launched bowling ball. They howled when I told them about falling into Whitt and inadvertently kneeing him in the groin.
As the laughter died down, Adolph put a hand over mine. “I understand why you couldn’t show me a photo of the sketch earlier. But now, with case closed, I beg you to let me see it.”
“Beg?” I repeated with a smile.
“I will get on my knees if that’s what it takes.” Adolph raised an eyebrow. “But it will take the both of you to get me back on my feet.”
“I agree with Adolph,” Gabe said. “Not about begging, but about finally seeing the sketch.”
I grabbed my handbag from the back of my barstool. I brought up the photos on my cell and thumbed through. I found the photo of the sketch and handed my phone to Adolph. Gabe stepped next to him.
“My God,” Adolph said breathlessly.
“Incredible.” Gabe took his eye from the screen for a second as he said, “Remember you promised to ask the owner if I can write a paper on it.”
“I remember,” I said. “And I’ll see if I can have some prints made.”
They both stared intently at the screen.
Adolph’s eyes welled up, and I knew that when and if he saw the actual sketch, tears would trail down his cheeks. “It’s—it’s—”
I stood up and joined them, taking in the magnificence of The Floating Ballerina. “Yeah. It’s hard to put into words.”
After a few more minutes of passing my phone around and admiring the sketch, we started in on a group cleanup that only took twenty minutes.
As I wiped around the stovetop, I told Gabe, “Adolph is quite the artist.”
“Really? That’s praise from Lise,” Gabe said as he put spices back into his rack. “If she’d said, ‘Adolph is an artist,’ I would be polite and inquire a little about it, but when she says, ‘quite the artist,’ well, then I’m intrigued.”
Adolph said, “Please stop by my gallery. I’ll show you some recent work, plus I have a few older pieces in the back, gathering dust.”
I told Gabe about Adolph’s latest paintings and how I’d found one in a victim’s condo.
“It’s an odd feeling to have had a recent customer come to such an awful end,” Adolph said. “But it did bring Lise into my life, for which I am grateful.”
I kind of got choked up, so before things could get too mushy, I pointed out that Gabe was a painter as well. After dinner, we brewed three coffees à la French press and took a stroll around Gabe’s house, looking at the various paintings he’d done, with him giving the history of each, including inspiration, where, and when.
“Is your studio here or at the university?” Adolph asked.
“Definitely here, within the peace and quiet of home instead of the hustle and bustle at school. I doubt I’d get anything done there.”
“Working on anything at the moment? Something you can show us?” I asked.
He led us to his studio, one of the bedrooms he’d long ago converted. He had pulled up the carpet and padding, leaving a concrete floor. He’d brought in a plumber to install a stainless-steel utility sink, which was a myriad of colors from all the paintbrushes he’d cleaned over the years. His supplies were on a table and shelves next to the sink, dozens of well-used brushes, palettes, paints of all kinds and colors, and countless stained rags. Preferring to work in the harsh light of overhead fluorescent tubes and the closeness of four walls, he had put blackout blinds on the room’s one window, and I’d never seen them open. Three stools of varying heights stood near the easel, which was an ancient thing that held a medium-sized canvas on it. Two or three dozen other canvases of varying sizes were scattered around, leaning against the walls or each other. A few were blank, some were covered, others were completed, but most were unfinished pieces he’d stopped working on so he could move on to other projects.
We stood before the canvas on the easel and took in an acrylic abstract that seemed in motion. Hot colors—yellows, oranges, and reds—seemed to move in currents like water. It was all backed by similar hues in darker tones. Images seemed to be hidden among the colors: an observant eye in the upper left, two shadowy figures at the bottom of the canvas, and what appeared to be the ruins of a building in the middle. When I looked elsewhere then back again, I could no longer see those things.
“Did you hide images in there?” I asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps your mind is creating them and placing them there.”
“Well, whichever it is, it’s a brilliant piece.” Without taking his eyes from the painting, Adolph said, “I’d be more than happy to display some of your work at my gallery, if you’d like to sell them.”
“Yeah, I’d be interested.”
Gabe and Adolph started to talk business, and my eyes wandered around the room. One cloth-draped canvas caught my eye. It was long, and the cloth didn’t cover a portion of the left side. The only thing visible was a hand, but the way it was relaxed, with a pointing index finger, was familiar. Then it hit me—it resembled God’s hand as he reached for Adam in the painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. There was a momentary chill because Michelangelo had painted that. Then I wondered if I would always connect the psycho Michelangelo with the master. God, I hoped not. I stepped closer and saw that not only was it a feminine hand, but it also had nail polish. The only visible nail was the thumbnail, and it definitely sported red polish.
I pointed to it. “What’s that one, Gabe? I thought it was from the Sistine Chapel. I suppose it still could be. God as a woman.”
Gabe laughed and walked over to it. “Hardly.” He grabbed the cloth, and I was disappointed that instead of revealing it, he’d covered the whole painting. “I won’t tell you what it’s supposed to be. It was a grand idea that ended up sophomoric, and I quit working on it. I’ll paint over it.”
Adolph said, “I like that idea, though, God as woman in the Sistine Chapel. Could fit in my current series, don’t you think?”
“And instead of Adam, God reaches for Eve,” I said.
“Oooh, make it Eve Arden.” Of course Gabe would come up with the idea of the Hollywood actress whose career spanned decades.
Eyes alight, Adolph said, “And I’ll call it the Sistine Sisters—or something along those lines.”
“I’m having an after-dinner cigar on the back deck. Anyone want to join me?” Gabe asked.
“I do,” I said. “No cigar, though. I’ll have another whiskey.”
“And I’ll bask in the company of new friends,” Adolph said.
“Head on out. I’ll join you in a minute,” Gabe said and started for his office. I knew he had his ritual of selecting a cigar from his humidor, rolling it in his fingers, and carefully snipping the end off it.
I led Adolph back to the kitchen and poured a couple of fingers of brown liquor into my glass, then Adolph and I went out to Gabe’s deck. It overlooked a small backyard, but past that was the Intracoastal Waterway, almost a mile wide at this part of the river. I turned on Gabe’s deck lights, which were actually small white Christmas lights that were used year-round.
“Nice,” Adolph said appreciatively.
I took a sip of my spirits. “Excuse me a minute, Adolph. I need an ice cube.”
I went back in through the French doors just as Gabe entered the kitchen with a fat cigar and his special cigar lighter in one hand. He grabbed a couple of paper towels and wiped at his sleeve. When I saw the fra diavolo sauce staining the paper towel, I barked a laugh, which startled Gabe, making him jump.
“Sorry,” I said, laughing. “Even in black, you still make a mess.”
A half-grin broke on his face. He held up his arm. “At least I’m consistent.”
“Can I get one of your big ice cubes please?” I asked, holding out my whiskey glass.
We spent an hour with our butts parked in Adirondack chairs on Gabe’s deck, talking. Between conversation, we listened to nocturnal birds calling out. As the party broke up, we ended up on Gabe’s front stoop. I thanked both of them for helping me bring my case to a successful conclusion.
“The FBI should get your help with that art killer case,” Adolph said.
“From your lips to God’s ear,” I said.
Gabe said, “You always could put two and two together, Lise. It might take you time to figure it out, but you always do. Even when you were a student. It’s the way your mind works. In fact, I bet you figure out who Michelangelo is before the FBI.”
“I wish.” I was grateful we were out in the night air so they wouldn’t see me blush.
Adolph volunteered to drive me home. I’d only had one post-dinner whiskey, though, and I said I would be fine.
Passing Teague’s car, I banged on the hood. “Wake up, Special Agent, time to head home.” I knew he wasn’t really sleeping; he was too good at his job.
“Har-dee-har,” Teague said and started the car.
I got in my car. Feeling someone’s attention, I turned back to Gabe’s house. He stood on the front porch, rubbing his wrist, a blank expression on his face. I waved and drove away. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that he still stood there, watching me.
There was a special feeling when spending an evening bonding with good friends, and I went to sleep reflecting on that and feeling content.