Authors: Joanne Pence
The Da Vinci Cook (9 page)
Angie was developing some definite ideas about Cat and Marcello, but a restaurant was hardly the place to confront her sister.
“We’ve been so hung up on finding Marcello,” Angie said after a while, “that we’ve forgotten what started all this today—or I should say yesterday, since we lost a day traveling.”
“It feels like we lost a month,” Cat lamented. She’d practically cleaned her plate. Notwithstanding the drab decor, the food was quite good.
“It began with someone, presumably Marcello, accusing you of stealing from his house.”
“Yes. Or, I should say, that’s what the office manager, Meredith Woring, claimed was said.” Cat grimaced. “What a bitch! The whole thing is ridiculous!”
“Of course it is. But why would Marcello, or anyone, have said such a thing? And it couldn’t have been Marcello, since he was already in Italy.”
“Was he?” Cat wore a thoughtful frown. “The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it was Marcello I followed. He might have used Rocco’s passport if the two still look alike. And keep in mind, a passport is good for ten years, so the photo could be an old one. But why would Marcello travel using Rocco’s identification? That doesn’t make sense either!”
Just then the scraping of chairs caught Angie’s attention. The father and son got up to leave and were heading for the door when the son abruptly turned toward the kitchen. Bruno Montecatini met him in the doorway and the two men shook hands before the son followed his father out.
Angie thought he must have really liked the meal until she saw the waiter surreptitiously slip something into his pocket. Just what was going on here?
“How does that idea strike you, Angie?” Cat repeated. “That Marcello used Rocco’s identification.”
“That’s as good as anything,” Angie admitted, puzzling over the strange interplay she’d witnessed. “Even if it was Marcello you followed, why would he have called Meredith with such an accusation? Why lie and say you stole the chain? Especially if he had it himself.”
“It’s illogical!” There were few things Cat hated more than lack of logic. “I believe whoever did it wanted me fired. For all I know, Meredith made the whole story up so she could sell Marcello’s house herself and get my commission! On a five and a half million dollar sale, it could be big enough to kill over.”
“You really think she made it up?”
“I guess . . . not really,” Cat said wearily. “One of the owners, Jerome Ranker, was in the office when she fired me, and I went to him. He said Meredith was overreacting, to go home and try not to think about it. He promised to talk to her, and he was sure I’d get back my job and good name soon.”
“But you didn’t go home,” Angie prodded.
Cat flushed. “No.”
Angie remained silent as their dessert was served. “Have you ever seen the chain you’re supposed to have taken?”
Cat nodded as she speared a melon. “Yes. It’s about a foot and a half long, with rusted metal links and large loops at the ends for wrists or ankles. It looks like something you’d find in a junkyard, except that Marcello kept it in a black leather box.”
“The box you saw him carry as he ran from the house.”
“I think so,” Cat admitted.
Angie couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “You think? First you guessed it was Marcello, and now you only guess it was the box? What’s going on here?”
“Well, it’s a good guess because . . . ” Cat put down her fork.
Angie waited. “Because?”
Cat explained that she’d looked in Marcello’s bedroom safe and the chains were gone.
“Are you telling me you know the combination to his safe?” Angie could hardly believe it. “Is he aware of that? No wonder he thinks you stole it!”
Cat archly lifted her eyebrows. “No, he doesn’t know that I know. In any event, as a realtor, I am thorough.”
And as a sister, Angie knew when Cat was lying through her teeth.
With each question, the tension between them increased.
It was time to go. As they paid for the meal, Angie was surprised to see that the tables around them were now empty.
They were the last to leave that night.
Paavo drove Bianca to Flora Piccoletti’s house in his Corvette. Angie had given it to him for Christmas because she was worried about the old car he’d been driving. He’d once mentioned that, years ago, he enjoyed watching the TV show
Miami Vice,
in which Don Johnson played a cop who drove a Corvette—rather ridiculous in hindsight. He guessed those comments stayed with Angie. When he let himself think about the car, it seemed an awful indulgence. Most of the time, though, he simply enjoyed it.
Bianca was still fussing, even as she sat in the car. She took out a Kleenex and used it to shine the knobs on the heater and radio controls. Paavo half expected her to start washing windows—the outside ones. He asked her about Flora Piccoletti, hoping to distract her.
Flora was in her late seventies and in good health. The family was large, but not close, and she had lived very much cut off from the others since her favorite sister became afflicted with dementia. No one knew what Flora’s sons were up to, and the daughter, Josie, had been estranged from her mother for years.
“She’s a tough old thing,” Bianca said. “She and Mamma were friends years back, but then she got more and more sour about the world. Mamma found her tiresome, especially as Papa’s money grew. Flora was always bitter that her husband died before he became rich. I think she expected her children to make it up to her.”
“Did they?”
Bianca opened his glove compartment and started to stack the papers inside it neatly—maps on the bottom, registration next, gas card receipts on top. “I never heard that they did. In fact, I think they all pretty much took off and left Flora on her own. Mamma hasn’t heard from her in years, but then, leopards don’t change their spots, do they?”
“No,” Paavo said, “I guess not.”
“Do you need to keep two-month-old receipts?”
He reached over and shut the glove box. “Leave them.”
She folded her hands and stared out the side window. “You’re worried about Angie, aren’t you?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” he asked. “She’s following someone who well may be a murderer. It’s insane. Sometimes, I don’t understand your sister at all.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Bianca said. “She knows what she’s doing, and she’d never take an unnecessary chance. Besides, Cat is with her.”
“Oh, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” Paavo said.
“I’m glad.” Bianca smiled, and Paavo wondered if she really didn’t understand sarcasm. “Are you eating all right? Getting enough sleep?” She wrapped a fresh Kleenex around her forefinger, dabbed spit on it, and began to rub it along the seam where the dash and windshield met—that little groove where dust and dirt could collect and was impossible to get out short of using a toothbrush. She used a fingernail.
Paavo drove faster.
“Angie said she really likes your little house, by the way,” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to get out some infinitesimal grit that lodged in the groove.
“Once we’re married, we’ll have to move,” Paavo said. “My place isn’t big or modern enough for Angie.”
“When she was a little girl, she loved to make cute little cardboard houses for her dolls. For herself, she’d draw chalk marks as her ‘house’ out on the sidewalk or in our backyard. I guess that’s what came of living with four older sisters and always sharing a bedroom. She wanted her own space.”
He thought about what Bianca had told him. “Are you saying she might be happy simply moving into my place?”
Bianca came him a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Flora Piccoletti’s home was on Vallejo between Polk and Larkin, at the foot of Russian Hill. It consisted of two flats over a garage. They walked up the stairs and looked at the large brass numbers on the doors. Paavo rang the doorbell. Bianca stood smoothing her jacket and picking off minuscule pieces of lint.
When there was no answer, he pounded hard on the door. A lot of older people, some young ones as well, didn’t open the door unless they were expecting someone. Between solicitors, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and people coming to case the place and rob you, he could understand why they didn’t. “Mrs. Piccoletti?” he called. “Are you in there? Open up. Police.”
He knocked again.
“Look under the flowerpot near her door,” Bianca said.
At the top of the stairs, against the walls of the entryway, were two large cement flowerpots filled with fake nasturtiums, one beside each door. “You’re kidding, right?” he said. “That’s a cliché. Nobody would leave a key there.”
“Flora would.”
He tried it, and sure enough, found a key.
He unlocked the door. “The police can’t go searching someone’s house for no good reason,” he said, eyeing Bianca.
“Oh? Okay.” She took a step forward, but he grabbed her arm, stopping her.
“You’re worried that she didn’t answer,” he prompted.
Bianca formed her mouth into a big O, then nodded. “Go.”
He entered a long hallway. Just past the front door was the living room. He looked inside and saw that cushions from the sofa and an easy chair were on the floor, drawers opened, and a few books and papers strewn on the floor. “Wait here,” he said to Bianca.
She inched toward the living room, her eyes wide. “Oh, my God, look at this—” She reached for a pillow on the floor.
“Don’t touch it!” Paavo ordered. She snatched back her hand.
He went down the hall to the kitchen, which was also torn up, but empty. A bathroom came next. Empty.
When he reached the bedroom, he found that the room had been torn apart worse than the others. But that wasn’t what caused him to freeze in the doorway.
He didn’t need to check to see if she was dead. Rigor had already begun. Her lips and skin had a bluish-white tinge, and her opened eyes were unfocused with the strangely sightless lucidity of the dead.
She lay on the carpet, papers strewn around her. Her nightgown was twisted around her body and had ridden high on her thighs. Her legs were skinny, the skin sagging as if she’d started to shrink within her own body. A pale blue terry-cloth strip was around her neck. For a moment Paavo wondered what it was, until he noticed the bathrobe tossed on the foot of the bed. The sash from her robe had been used to strangle her.
That meant that whoever came here might not have planned to kill her. If they had, they would have taken something to do the job, and not relied on what was available.
Her sheets and blankets were half off the bed and on the floor, as if she’d grabbed them as she was being dragged.
“What’s wrong, Paavo? Why are you just stand—”
He turned as the sound of Bianca’s voice came closer, and as he did, he no longer blocked the view. From the hallway, she could see into the bedroom.
All his life he’d heard the expression “her eyes bugged out of her head,” but he’d never seen it so completely as with Bianca. He moved toward her, to turn her around, get her away from the crime scene, when suddenly she let out the most bloodcurdling yell he’d ever heard. Her whole body went stiff, her bulging eyes rolled back in her head, and she began to topple like a statue.
Somehow, he managed to catch her before her head hit the floor.
And, he thought, she’s the calm, cool, collected one.
Via Porta Cavalleggeri had been bustling with cars, taxis, and people when Angie and Cat arrived at the restaurant, but now the shops were closed and the streets practically empty. Still, in the distance they could hear the ever-present sound of Rome’s traffic, and the air was filled with the scent of fresh herbs, spices, and citrus. Although night had fallen, the heavy warmth of the Italian sun lingered, a tangible thing that one could almost reach out and touch.
Dinner at Da Vinci’s had come to over ninety euros, thanks mainly to Cat’s wine. Since their ATM money was evaporating right before their eyes, and the Hotel Leonardo was less than a mile away, they decided to walk.
Angie hugged her jacket close. She had the alarming sense of being watched, but that was silly, she thought. It was just the circumstance. Still, she paid close attention to the surroundings.