Free Farewell to the Flesh by Edward Sklepowich

reached this point, Berenice Pillow seemed about to say something. Urbino suspected it might be about the dubious appropriateness of such an allegory—a woman positioned seductively between two handsome men—as a wedding gift from husband to wife.
    Urbino was prepared to give a few more details about the painting when Berenice Pillow said, “I don’t remember seeing it in that article in Casa Vogue , Barbara.”
    â€œOh, but it definitely was, Berenice dear. I would have insisted on it even if they hadn’t wanted it.”
    â€œI’m sure you know what you’re talking about, but I just don’t remember.” She narrowed her eyes for a few seconds. “But of course! I don’t believe I saw the whole article.”
    â€œThe Veronese was on the very first page.”
    â€œThat’s it! I’m afraid the copy I had—it was at my lawyer’s in New York—was a bit mutilated. Now that I think of it, the first part was missing. That’s why I didn’t recognize the Veronese.” She looked at the painting again for a few moments and then sat down on the sofa beside the Contessa. “You wouldn’t have a copy of the magazine, would you, Barbara? I would so love to see the whole thing.”
    â€œI have hundreds! Urbino, would you be so kind as to go to the library? You know where they are.”
    Tonio Vico got up.
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse me. I’m meeting someone at Harry’s Bar. I’m sure I’m leaving Mother in good hands. She’s been so anxious to see you again, Contessa. We couldn’t keep her down in Napoli when she knew you were up here. I hope you’ll be kind enough to share your memories of St. Brigid’s with me on another occasion, without Mother around to try to deny everything, however.”
    After he left, Urbino went down the wide central hall to the library, a large room that overlooked the walled garden. The da Capo-Zendrini book collection, most of which dated back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, had some of the most important works about the Venetian Republic.
    Urbino went to the glass-doored cabinet, noting that a copy of Lorenzetti’s Feste e Maschere Veneziane lay open on the table. Could his friend be more interested in Carnevale than she pretended to be? She was probably looking forward to her costume ball much more than she was willing to let on.
    He searched through the magazines until he found a copy of Casa Vogue . Despite what the Contessa had said, there were only three copies.
    When he returned to the salotto , the women had been joined by Sister Teresa. The sister, a tall, dark woman in her early fifties, was standing nervously in her gray coat. She turned to him with a worried expression.
    â€œSignor Macintyre, you must help us!”
    Sister Teresa, who had recently become tour guide at the Casa Crispina, had good English, but Urbino could tell that she was in danger of losing it. Usually calm and in control, she was now very nervous. Her bony hands were tightly clenched. Putting the magazine down on the table next to the tea service, he went over to her.
    â€œWhat is it, Sister?” he asked in Italian.
    â€œSanta Crispina is accused of murder, that’s what it is!”

2
    A few minutes of gentle interrogation in her native Italian clarified the situation, but only slightly. Sister Teresa didn’t mean that the patron saint of her order was under suspicion—a rather difficult turn of events since Santa Crispina, though not her charity, had been dead since the fifteenth century—but that the convent and its pensione were.
    â€œIt’s the murder in the Calle Santa Scolastica. Don’t you know? It’s one of our guests! The English photographer! He was stabbed in the heart!”
    The Contessa went over and took her hand.
    â€œSignor Gibbon!” the Contessa said. “But it can’t be true! Murdered!”
    â€œIt is true,