She cooked well, if simply, her weight a constant concern. Her fondness for pasta, cheese, and desserts, and her disability’s constraints on exercise, made weight loss seem almost impossible. She accepted the fact just as she accepted her solitude—with quiet resignation.
On this evening, she found little to work with in the cupboard or small fridge. She should have gone shopping after work, but she’d had more pressing concerns.
It was almost nine o’clock when she sat down to a modest dinner of pasta with pesto from a jar and a small salad made with wilted lettuce. She opened a bottle of Chianti, pouring herself a full glass before corking the bottle. The currant-colored liquid cheered her, but she only picked at her dinner, worried as she was about the theft of the illustrations, her sudden change in appearance, and Angelo.
Afterward, she cleared the table and spread her drawing materials across it, eager to draw Angelo’s likeness. But something stopped her. Her hand froze, as if it were unwilling to commit him to posterity. As if it would be a sin against hope to relegate him to a drawing.
Instead, she put on some music and began to sketch a stranger’s face.
When she was finished, Raven poured herself a second glass of wine, absolutely ignoring her discarded dishes. This was anomalous, since she normally washed the dishes after every meal. On this evening, she felt the need for fortitude rather than cleanliness and so she sipped her wine and stared at the sketch once again.
The face was handsome and symmetrical, with high cheekbones. Its almost feminine beauty was counterbalanced by the masculine jaw and brows. Apart from a slight resemblance to photographs of a young Sting, the man in the portrait was a stranger to her. She didn’t know where his image came from or why she’d felt compelled to draw him.
Sometimes the Muses spoke in foreign tongues and she was ignorant of their meaning.
She was modestly pleased with the sketch, even though she knew there was something missing. On a whim, she signed and dated it and placed it on top of her dresser, at the foot of her bed.
Then, as if one of the Muses were whispering in her ear, she opened her laptop, taking note that it was now past eleven, and Googled the name William York.
She found several entries, one of which was to a story about a ten-year-old who’d murdered a little girl. Raven shuddered and moved past that link.
She skimmed through several pages of results, but nothing caught her attention. Certainly, if there were a William York living in Florence, he wasn’t much of a public figure. There weren’t any entries on him at all.
Raven hastily finished her second glass of wine, recalling what she’d overheard Professor Emerson say to Dottor Vitali. He’d described William York as a recluse who’d donated money to help restore the Palazzo Medici Riccardi.
When Raven clicked on the website for the palazzo, she found that the major restorations had been done long ago. There were restorations in 1874 when the building was taken over by the province. There were additional restorations from 1911 to 1929. The most recent modifications to the property began in 1992.
It was unlikely if not impossible that William York financed the restorations before 1929. That meant he had to be one of the patrons of the 1992 restoration. Dottor Vitali was already working at the Uffizi by then. Certainly he knew everyone of importance in the city. Since he didn’t recognize the name, Professor Emerson must have been mistaken.
But he’d sounded so sure. And he’d been indignant when Vitali claimed not to know who he was talking about.
Stranger still, the professor had identified William York as a patron of the Uffizi. Raven was certain that his name hadn’t appeared on the list Ispettor Batelli had shown her earlier that day.
The palazzo itself wasn’t far. It was mere steps from the Duomo on Via Cavour. She could walk to the building, look around, and be back in bed in an hour and a half. Of course, it would be preferable to do so during the day or perhaps after work, but she’d draw attention to herself by visiting the palazzo during the day. And there was the matter of her work schedule.
It was possible, she thought, as she put on a hooded sweatshirt, that she could speak with a security guard about the building’s patrons, since the guard would likely be unoccupied and perhaps bored at this late hour. The security guards at the Uffizi were a wealth of information and Raven had always found them to be extremely forthcoming, if one took the time to speak with them.
Perhaps the second glass of wine had made her bold. Perhaps it was simply her suspicion that she wouldn’t be able to sleep without expending some energy. But whatever the true reason, she exited her apartment with her knapsack, hoping she would uncover something that would put her back into the good graces of Dottor Vitali.