“Wonderful!” he murmured happily and folded his sticklike body in half to duck under the chain, whereupon he immediately began taking pictures.
Sigrid did not bother to point out that this was probably forbidden. Instead, she asked, “What’s the symbolism?”
“Metamorphosis. The goddess is changing them into frogs.”
“Why?”
“Go read your Ovid for the long version,” he said as he clicked away. “Short version? Leto came to a village spring with her children and asked for a drink of water, but the oafish villagers — those louts there—” He gestured to the statues of young men who menaced the goddess with rocks and sticks. “—refused and then stomped around to muddy the water so that she couldn’t drink. At that point, she decided that if they thought mud was so funny, then they could live in it the rest of their lives and she started turning them into frogs. See the terror in that guy’s face? He’s just realized what’s in store for him.”
He shot more pictures, then slipped back under the chain and smiled at her. “Good swim?”
“Very,” she said with an answering smile and her gray eyes shone almost silver in this light.
Despite high cheekbones and a thin nose, she was not conventionally beautiful and there was nothing sexy about her slender body, yet Buntrock no longer wondered why Oscar Nauman had been so intrigued. Her neck was too long, her mouth too wide, her chin too strong, and her smiles were rare. But when she did smile, it left no doubt as to why his friend had fallen in love with her.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I told Jim Olson we’d join them for drinks this evening.”
Earlier, and she might have balked. So soon after her swim, she merely said, “What time?”
When they arrived shortly before six, five of Dr. Olson’s seven-member group had already gathered in the apartment shared by Hugh Jensen and Darryl Jensen, two wealthy cousins who could have been brothers. Both were small, pudgy men of late middle-age with thinning gray hair, and both were at least six inches shorter than Sigrid, who, at five-ten, immediately found a chair and sat down so that she would not tower over them. Not that Darryl Jensen would have minded. He seemed like the effervescent, sweet-tempered yang to his cousin Hugh’s waspish and more volatile yin.
He poured her a glass of wine while Hugh Jensen made testy remarks about the lack of window screens. His face was blotched with angry red mosquito bites and he acted as if Dr. Olson were responsible for each and every one.
Jim Olson was a lanky, white-haired six-footer with a broad Midwestern face that made him look more like a dairy farmer than a professor of art history. He looked down at Hugh Jensen now with the same look of puzzlement that a kindly mastiff might give a yipping dachshund.
“Anybody have some insect repellant they could share with Hugh?”
Sigrid had caught a whiff of Off from the two gray-haired women seated nearby, but both shook their heads.
“Sorry, Hugh,” he said, then introduced the two newcomers: “Elliott Buntrock, who’ll be speaking to us tomorrow about the Severini frescoes, and his friend Sigrid Harald.”
He rattled off the names of the others, and Sigrid learned that the man who had spoken to her at the swimming pool was Gene Gallins. As he and the two cousins began to discuss the region’s red wines with Buntrock and Olson, the older of the two women smiled at Sigrid. “You probably didn’t catch our names. I’m Barbara Rosser. And this is my business partner, Alexa Hayne.”
“Partner?”
“Custom framing and art supplies,” said Alexa, who was a few years younger and at least three inches shorter. “We own a little shop near Jim’s university.”
The little shop must do quite well, Sigrid thought. Their linen shirts and slacks clearly came from an upscale boutique, and she was willing to bet that the wide gold cuff Alexa wore and the emerald earrings that sparkled on Barbara’s ears were genuine.
Abruptly, Sigrid realized that she was still acting like a police detective sizing up suspects at a murder scene. That was all in the past now, she told herself bleakly. She had never been good at the small talk of social gatherings, but this was to be her world now: art and art lovers. Nevertheless she lowered her voice and said, “The mosquitoes don’t bother you?”
The intensity of Alexa Hayne’s reply startled her. “Odious little man! If he were dying of thirst, I wouldn’t give him a teaspoon of warm spit.”
“Now, Alexa,” said her partner. “Every tour we’ve ever taken has had its Hugh Jensens.”
“Not rolled into one economy-size package.”
“True,” Barbara Rosser agreed. “Have you ever toured with a group, Sigrid?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re young yet. Jim’s are always small and intimate. Most of us either know each other or have mutual friends. At our age, it’s nice not to have to worry about hotels or restaurants and he builds in flexibility so that you can putter around a town on your own. If you’re dying to see a particular church or museum that isn’t on the itinerary, Jim’ll make sure you do. This is our third trip with him.”
“Spain last year, Germany the year before,” said Alexa. “When there are more than nine of us, his son Eric comes along to drive a second van, but our group is smaller than usual this year.”
“And fewer people seems to magnify any little personality quirks,” said Barbara.
“Pompous, know-it-all rudeness is not a ‘little personality quirk,’ ” Alexa snapped.
Barbara rolled her eyes, but Alexa was already citing chapter and verse of Hugh Jensen’s offenses: If leaving for a day trip in the van, he would be the last one out of the hotel. If meeting for the return drive, he would always come strolling up at least fifteen minutes later than the time agreed upon.
“And he makes sure he gets the best seat in the van, while Barbara—” Alexa Hayne’s black eyes glistened as she looked at her friend.
The older woman put a restraining hand on her partner’s arm. “Alexa babies me. My back does give me a little trouble, but because we’re always on time, we wind up climbing into the back of the van while Hugh helps himself to a seat in the middle row where it’s easier to get in and out.”
“So why not take those seats yourselves?” Sigrid asked.
“Because then he moans about how bumpy it is back there and how the air conditioner doesn’t reach to the back, or else he makes Jim stop the van so he can take pictures and whoever’s sitting in the middle row next to the door has to move to let him out. It’s easier to let him have his way.”
Barbara gave a rueful smile. “I know, I know. Giving in like that only reinforces his selfishness, but Italy was always my favorite country. We’re here to relax and enjoy its beauty and we don’t have the time or the energy to stage a confrontation.”
“In Venice, though, we missed our one chance at the Tiepolo ceiling because Hugh got us thoroughly lost,” Alexa said. “We knew the museum would close for renovations the day after we arrived, but there would have been plenty of time that first afternoon except that he insisted on finding some mask-maker’s studio that was supposed to be on the way.”
“And we can’t say a word because it so distresses Darryl, and he’s such a sweetie. Everything Hugh isn’t.”
“Ah, there you are!” cried the object of their dislike as the last two members of the group entered carrying lumpy packages that they deposited with others on a table by the door. “Better late than never.”
“You’re one to talk,” snapped Sabra Lyle, the athletic swimmer who had dived into the pool as Sigrid was leaving it.
To Sigrid’s surprise, the man behind her was Taylor Williams, an old friend of her mother’s and a professional photographer who had published several well-received coffee-table books on lesser-known artists.