"So what would you pay for it?" the second voice, an American, said.
"I can't pay anything. I have no acquisitions budget to speak of, and frankly, this is not really a commercial venture. I get certain tax benefits out of it, which I could offer to help you with, if you have income in Italy and are prepared to donate it," the voice I took to be Rosati, said.
"Maybe the group would consider it."
"Perhaps. That's not up to me. You know, though, they couldn't come up with anything like what you paid for it."
"Okay," the second man said. "I'll think about the tax angle, and we'll talk some more."
Before I could duck out into the museum, the tiniest cowboy I have ever seen came out of the office. He was dressed in a gray suit that was perfectly tailored for him, with everything, even the buttons, scaled down in proportion to his height, a white shirt, and string tie. To complete the look, he wore rather elaborate black cowboy boots and a Stetson. Including the hat and boots, he wasn't as tall as I am. "Ma'am," he said, tipping his hat to me as he went out.
Rosati was a few steps behind him.
"Hi," I said.
"Well, hello again," he said, looking surprised. "Did you come to claim that dinner I promised you in Volterra? You stood me up."
"I'm sorry. I got called away on business. Did you not get my message?"
"No, I did not."
"I would have thought such a nice hotel would have better service. This is a wonderful place you have."
"Then you've come to take me up on my offer of a tour. I'm delighted."
"No. I came to talk to you about Crawford Lake," I said.
He looked mildly amused. "Why would you want to do that?"
"That's a very good question, and one for which frankly, I don't have a good answer, other than that I feel I've been duped by the man, and I wanted to talk to someone who knew him."
"I see. Sit down, please," he said. "We'll have that drink we missed the last time. Campari and soda, perhaps? It's late in the afternoon. I think I'll have one, if you will."
"Sure," I said. He poured the drinks, taking ice from a small refrigerator under the counter, and the soda and Campari from a credenza.
"Now," he said. "Crawford Lake. What do you want to know?"
"Just your involvement with him."
"He put me out of business, or rather he put the bank I worked for out of the Internet banking business for awhile, and me out of a job."
"So, did you ever meet him in person?"
"No. I think that was one of the most offensive parts of it. This person whose face I couldn't even picture made a mess of my life."
"Do you hate him?"
"I did for awhile. I got over it. I have a rather nice life now, as perhaps you can see. I love art and antiquities, and I have this wonderful place, as you put it. I have good people working for me now, so I don't even have to work that hard. I just get to come in here whenever I want and enjoy myself."
"By good people, you mean someone like Nicola Marzolini," I said. "I couldn't help noticing his name on the door."
"Yes, Nicola is one of the people I employ from time to time. Do you know him?"
I nodded.
"He's a consultant, not full time, but very good. He knows his stuff, and he pays attention to detail. Pleasant fellow as well, although if you've met him, you probably know he has a thing about neatness. He has a fit when one of the others doesn't keep the work area absolutely tidy. He's always making sure the books on the shelf here line up perfectly. As you can see," he said waving his hand toward the desk in the room behind, "I'm of the school that believes that a tidy desk is the sign of a diseased mind. I haven't seen the top of my desk in months. But to get to your point, I probably should thank Crawford Lake for what happened, although I don't think I've reached that stage quite yet. Does that answer your question?"
"It does," I said. I just really didn't know whether to believe him or not. "Would Hank Mariani feel the same way you do? That was Hank Mariani, was it not? The Texas oilman who outbid Crawford Lake for the Etruscan bronze Aplu?"
"How ever would you know that?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I saw his picture in the paper. Lake was making a hostile bid for Mariani's company, if I remember correctly. Has he reached the same Zen state you have on the subject of Lake?"
"He isn't too relaxed about it, no. To be fair, though, it was only a few days ago that he was asked to clear out of his large corner office, when Lake won the battle. It will take awhile for him to recover, I'm sure."
"Presumably he had shares to sell and doesn't have to worry," I said. "Financially, I mean."
"Oh, I think it was more than just his pride that was hurt," Rosati said. "He spends rather lavishly, I'm afraid, and he did some rather stupid things to try to stop Lake from getting the company. As a result, he wants me to buy the Aplu, but like all museums or galleries, I essentially have no budget for doing so. I'm sure he'll land on his feet, however, and I shouldn't be gossiping about him like this. Another Campari?" he asked.
"No, I better not. But thank you, both for the drink and your candor."
"I hope whatever Crawford Lake has done to you is not too serious. Whatever it is, my advice to you is just to get on with your life. There are always other opportunities."
"Thanks again," I said.
"You're welcome. Let me walk you to the door. I'm leaving, too. I'll show you a few of my favorite things as we go."
"Good-bye, signora," the security guard said. "Have a good holiday tomorrow, signore," he said to Rosati.
"I'm spending a day in the country," Rosati said as he shook my hand. "An annual get-together with friends. I'm rather looking forward to it."
Outside the museum, I tried to call Salvatore to get him to look into Nicola Marzolini, but there was no answer. I went back to the hotel.
"Signora McClintoch," the bell captain called to me. "A package was delivered for you. I have taken the liberty of having it sent up to your room."
"Thanks so much," I said. What package? I thought.
A reasonably large box well wrapped in brown kraft paper sat on the bureau in my room. I regarded it with deep suspicion. The sender's name and address were quite clear, however: Salvatore Vitali at his address in Cortona.
I opened the box. It contained a bubble-wrapped package protected by a rather large quantity of foam chips. Gathering that it must be something fragile, I unwrapped it carefully, and found myself staring, once again, at the chimera hydria.
At that very moment, the phone rang.
"Lara!" Salvatore exclaimed. "I'm so glad to have reached you. I have such good news. I can barely speak, I am so happy. We wanted to phone you right away."
I said nothing, just stared at the hydria.
"Are you there?" he said. "Lara?"
"Yes, I'm here," I said through clenched teeth. "What is your news?"
"My Lola is free!" he said. "She is right here with me."
"That's wonderful," I said. "Congratulations. How did you manage that?"
"But I did nothing," he said. "As much as I would like to claim credit, and so to win my Lola's heart, I cannot do so. The evidence, you see, has disappeared. Thieves broke into the police station three days ago and stole several articles, including the chimera hydria. Massimo Lucca, the policeman in charge of the investigation, called this morning. No vase, no case. Do you understand? Lucca said he could not hold Lola any longer under the circumstances. Isn't that wonderful news?"
"Wonderful," I said.
"We must celebrate before you return to America," he said. "A good meal at my favorite restaurant, a bottle or two of their best Barbaresco. Lola must eat. I'm going to make her some pasta right away."