The cheerful cabin steward had been finding plenty of opportunity to stop by and talk with the two women who’d come on board. Although I hadn’t learned their names, I knew that they were part of the band’s crowd. They weren’t cruel, but it was clear they had no interest in befriending Pinky, who had apparently latched onto soft-touch Matthew at the very last minute. Once aboard, however, her interest in the musician had dwindled, as had the group’s interest in her. Maybe she’d seen this as an opportunity for a cheap ride home. I couldn’t decide what her story was, and truth be told, I didn’t care.
“May I get you another?” Evelyn asked Bennett with a wide smile as she pointed to his nearly empty glass. “We still have a long ride ahead of us.”
Bennett picked up what was left of his Manhattan, drained it, and handed the glass to her. “One more,” he said. “It’ll help me sleep. After dinner I’ll be dead to the world.”
I winced, hoping no one noticed. Referring to death so lightly always sent a zing up the back of my neck. Personal quirk.
Evelyn winked. “You’ve got it.” She turned to me. “Another lemonade?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
Pinky spoke up. “I could use another drink.”
I didn’t make it a habit to monitor another’s alcohol intake, but I was pretty certain Pinky had downed her third, and was now requesting a fourth. Maybe she’d been thirsty and had been enjoying lemonade, too, but the woman’s glassy eyes made me doubt that. Evelyn plucked the proffered glass from her chubby hand and asked, “Death in the Afternoon, right?”
Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “That’s the name of the drink?”
Pinky glared. “Don’t get so high and mighty. I’ll have you know that Ernest Hemingway invented it. He named it after one of his books.”
“Oh,” was the best I could manage. “And is it any good?”
“It’s powerful,” she said, “and doesn’t make my brain foggy the way whiskey does.”
“Good to know,” I said politely, but she had already returned to staring out the window. I shot Bennett a “Whoops!” expression, which Matthew also caught. He waved a hand as though to dismiss my concerns. For two people who’d arrived together, they hardly behaved like a couple.
Delicious scents wafted our way from the rear of the plane—dinner would be served in less than an hour—and Matthew decided that it would be a good opportunity to allow Millie to visit the area of the plane that had been identified for her special needs in flight. He excused himself. Pinky watched them go, readjusting herself in her seat, looking as though she might need to use the human facilities herself.
I crossed the aisle and pulled the hidden jump seat out from the wall in front of Bennett. Evelyn dropped off his fresh Manhattan. Finally alone, he and I would be able to talk privately—relatively speaking—for the first time since we had arrived at Villa Pezzati. Without hesitation, I pounced on the big question that had been troubling me since our visit to his friend’s in-house gallery the day before.
I kept my voice low but found it impossible to keep my anticipation level down. “What was up with that Picasso skull?”
Bennett glanced around the plane’s cabin. Though luxurious and comfortably sized, it was still close quarters. He inched forward in his seat, then leaned toward me, elbows on his knees, drink in both hands. “It’s a fake.”
I’d expected him to tell me he had doubts about the piece’s authenticity. I hadn’t expected an unequivocal declaration. “Are you sure?”
He swirled his drink, sending a nonchalant glance around to ensure no one was listening. “Right here”—he tapped a spot just behind his right ear, where he’d indicated for me to look when I’d held it—“the real skull has a scratch.” He took a deep sip of his drink, then amended, “More like a chink, actually. A deep one, roughly in the shape of a P. When Nico first acquired it, we discussed—at length—whether it had been left there intentionally or if the skull had suffered some damage in its travels. I’m sure you noticed that the skull at Nico’s home had no such mark.”