Italy to Die For

From the Savino Sisters

Mystery Series

Italy to Die For

Loretta Giacoletto

http://www.lorettagiacoletto.com/

Copyright 2013 Loretta Giacoletto

Cover

iStockphotos
: PhillipMinnis and Tatianna

D
esign: Deanna Dionne, Custom Indie Covers

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Loretta Giacoletto.

Too much togetherness spells disaster for these thirty-something sisters vacationing in Italy. When glamorous Margo opts for a steamy romance in Florence, plain-Jane Ellen travels alone to their next destination, a charming hillside villa at La Spezia. The owner Lorenz, a mysterious widower, insists on showing Ellen around Cinque Terre, five picturesque villages overlooking the Ligurian Sea. Ellen is determined to experience the local culture but instead encounters intrigue in Monterosso el Mare where gypsies are turning up dead faster than Lorenzo can show her the sights. Then Margo arrives, and soon discovers her own life is in danger.

Chapter 1

On the Beach

The shroud of night had cast its
eerie net over Monterosso al Mare, leaving little more than an occasional light illuminating this hillside village bordering the Ligurian Sea. Monterosso’s old section catered to Italians on holiday as well as tourists from around the world, visitors who anticipated the seasonal anchovies, lemons the size of oranges, and the glory of unsurpassed sunsets enticing the more adventurous to linger until their money ran dry, usually around midnight.

At this hour
the trattorias and bars sat empty, as did the benches on the concrete boardwalk, a seawall supporting its broad expanse overlooking gray pebbles scattered over Monterosso’s beach, the finest among those villages known as
La Cinque Terre
, the five lands. But not the finest on this night, not for the woman whose throat had been slit, her endless flow of blood staining countless pebbles, contaminating them for the moment. In a matter of hours sun worshippers would flock to the beach, spread their towels on those once-contaminated pebbles, run across those pebbles on their way to the salty sea.  Better the sun worshippers shouldn’t know what evil had been perpetrated on those pebbles hours before, in the dark of night.

Until then, more like the discovery daylight would bring, a
path of disturbed pebbles indicated the woman sprawled on her stomach. She had been dragged toward the water, perhaps by her arm that now lay at an angle that must’ve been uncomfortable but no longer mattered. Her head was turned to the side, exposing one vacant eye, unaware of the salty sea water splashing into it. Her dark hair fell in wet ringlets, a handful of them pushed behind one earlobe, its tiny pierced hole ripped into an angry tear unable to support the gold earring clinging to shredded tissue. Her clothes, too colorful for resort wear, too gaudy for everyday wear. They distinguished her as a gypsy, making her a person those non-gypsies who value their possessions avoided at all costs.

Whatever the woman’s
ethnicity, whatever her taste in clothing or her standards of morality and honesty, she did not deserve to die like this. Or in any other way that defied the natural order of death.

Chapter 2

Ellen on Margo

“Hold on to your cu
p,” Margo said. She peered at me from over the rim of a cappuccino frothed to the perfection we’d come to expect from any coffee bar in Florence. “I’ve fallen in love again, this time with an Egyptian mummy.”

I
responded with a blank look I knew Margo would ignore and was not disappointed when she did.

“I just couldn’t help myself,” Margo went on.
“From the moment we made visual contact, a burning passion ignited the very depths of my soul. I shivered like a schoolgirl when he wrapped those muslin arms around me.”

“Oh-h, you mean th
at mime who works the steps of The Uffizi, the mime I tipped five euros so he’d go into his slow motion routine.” I stifled a yawn. “What an incredible photo op; can’t wait to print these awesome poses.”

Margo expelled an exasperated sigh
as only she could. “Don’t be catty, little sister. As you well know, Giorgio is a performance artist, the best in all of Firenze.”

“Which accounts for your staying out un
til three in the morning,” I said in a tone smacking dangerously close to our mother’s. Although I doubt Mom would’ve referred to Florence as Firenze.  But for sure she would’ve said this: “The least you could’ve done was to call.”

“And wake you up, please
. Give me some credit. Besides, isn’t that why we’re touring the land of our ancestors, to connect with the
macho Italiani
?”

“Also
to absorb the Italian culture, you may recall. While you were connecting with the greatest performance artist in all of Florence, I honored our appointment at The Uffizi and breezed through every room, inwardly gushing over masterpieces most people only dream of seeing.” I paused to catch my breath, moved in closer to Margo. “Then after perusing the outdoor sculptors, I hurried to The Accademia before it closed and examined every inch of the real David.”

“Naughty, naughty,” Margo said. She clucked
her tongue—also a trait of our mother. “Such dedication to marble and canvas, I’m sure all those sixth graders will be impressed by your upcoming travelogue. But a few days of sightseeing can’t begin to make a dent in the total Firenze experience, which brings me to a rather touchy subject: would you mind terribly if—”

“Don’t say it, Mar
go; don’t even think it.” I leaned back and held up my palms. “No way am I sacrificing our trip to Cinque Terre so you can explore the seductive mysteries of Florentine mummification.”

M
argo assumed a dreamy gaze. “In that case you’ll just have to go without me.”

“You can’t be
serious.” Without realizing it, I’d clenched my fingers into two angry fists, anything to keep my hands from wrapping around Margo’s skinny neck, my thumbs from digging into her throat. “What about our Mediterranean boat tour, those five villages resembling an artist’s palette, our train ride along the coast, and the multitude of quaint shops, our non-refundable reservations at that charming villa in La Spezia?”

“But you don’t understand,” Margo said. “How could you, considering your lack
of … never mind.”

“
Go ahead, say what you’re thinking. It’s not a crime, you know, and above all, not a sin. Technically, I’m still a virgin.”

“T
echnically, please. Three years in a convent was your idea of romance, not mine.”

“Nevertheless, I learned the importance of co
nnecting with my inner self, an experience I consider invaluable.”

“One that
stunted your sexual development, get real. You’re wrapped in a cocoon of frustrated repression.”

“I thought we were talking about Giorgio.”

“Right, Giorgio.” Margo leaned across the tiny table. “He lives in a fabulous apartment in the heart of Santa Croce and has assured me we will have the entire place to ourselves. Four glorious days, imagine that.”

“I’m trying to. What happens after
that
?”

Margo lifted her brow with another sigh. “His mother comes back from Vicenza.”

“Giorgio still lives with his mother?”

“Pu-lease, it’s t
he Italian way. The poor woman’s a lonely widow.”

“Who dotes on her only son, I suppose. How old is Mama’s Boy?”

“Not that age matters but if you must know: he’s twenty-eight.”

“How old,” I said.

“Okay, twenty-four.”

“And how old does Giorgio think you are?”

“Me-ow.” Margo showed me her version of a cat pawing the air. “You may be younger, but everyone thinks I’m prettier. Sorry, El.”

What could I say? Margo the p
aralegal, Margo a cougar in the making but way too young, sometimes blonde and always tawny; she complains about her size four clothes being too roomy while I the frustrated librarian will forever be known as a convent dropout. Not to mention carrying the burden of my superior intellect, a fallacy perpetrated by our mother.
A beautiful mind
she often referred to me, long before the release of that movie by the same name. My beautiful mind also shelters a practical side, which explains why I insisted on meeting the real Giorgio, not his mummified alter ego.

I expected an argument. Instead
, Margo opened our shared cell phone and punched in a series of numbers before showing me her back. I took the hint and distanced myself another twenty feet. The call must’ve ended on a positive note because she turned to me, a smug smile creeping across her face.

“Giorgio wants us to come over right away, before he prepares for his next performance. It’s a short walk from here, but first we have to stop at the market.”

“Don’t tell me he needs someone to fix his lunch.”

“Please, Ellen
—”

“I know, I know. It’s so Ita
lian.”

***

At the Sant’ Ambrogio market we cruised up and down a maze of fresh produce stalls, all the while my head reeling from the distinctive scents of onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, and leafy vegetables. Sweeter fragrances greeted me in the fruit section where Margo committed a shopper’s no-no—palming this ripe, luscious peach, her fingertips caressing its delicate skin until the clerk admonished her with a searing glare.

“Quattro,”
Margo snapped back, holding up four fingers. “And those.” She pointed to the bin of perfect apricots and spread out her thumb.
“Cinque.”

It t
ook three more stops before we exited the market with the fruit plus a loaf of crusty bread, three rounds of soft cheese, and enough wine for more than one meal—all distributed between two bags, their strings wrapped around my fingers since Margo needed hers for communicating. We’d almost traveled beyond a
pasticceria
when she did a quick backpedal.

“We really should bring some dessert, don’t you think
, El?”

“Don’t all Italian mamas keep
a tin of biscotti on hand?” Still, when I gazed into the window, my mouth started watering over the display of assorted pastries—miniature fruit tarts, elaborately decorated tarts, sugary horseshoes. Visions of the numbers on my digital scale wavered before my eyes. It took all my willpower to say, “Let’s vote with our feet and keep moving.”

I
might as well have been talking to the tray of cannoli because Margo already had one hand circled around the shop’s doorknob. I followed her inside, where she pointed out this and that before deciding on a chocolate hazelnut torte covered with chocolate butter cream icing. Minutes later I held the door open with one hip while Margo walked out with the boxed dessert tangling from a string on her fingers.

“Aren’t you
overdoing it, just a tad,” I said as we continued down the street.

“Take it from one who knows, Little Grasshopper.
Cioccolata
in any form makes for an incredible aphrodisiac.”

“For you or Giorgio,” I
said.

Before she could answer,
the melodic voice of a tenor called out from overhead.

“Caramia!”

The smile lighting up Margo’s face erased a good five years
from it. Head tilted upwards, she lifted her trim arm and waved.
“Ciao, mi amore!”

Leaning over a third-floor balcony was Margo’s boy toy, bare-chested with a tangle of dark curly hair tumbling over his forehead.

“He’s so adorable I could just take a bite out of him,” she said.

I rolled my
eyes to offset the tinge of jealousy I couldn’t help but feel.

In
the short time it took Margo and me to climb two flights of stairs, Giorgio had added a form-fitting T-shirt to his designer jeans and was waiting barefoot in the doorway of his apartment. Margo held out the pastry box as if it contained precious gold.

“For you, mi amore,” she purred.

Giorgio lifted the lid and surveyed its contents. He smacked his lips with the fingertips of one hand. After setting the box on an antique credenza, he swept Margo into his arms and together they twirled around. She giggled like the cheerleader of long ago. He could’ve passed for a soccer all-star. Or as they called soccer everywhere but in America:
fútbol
. When the dancing stopped, Margo took a minute to catch her breath before relieving me of the groceries still wrapped in my fingers. Only then did she introduce me to her glorified mummy.

Giorgio
and I exchanged the usual Italian greeting of kisses to both cheeks. His two-day growth of whiskers caressed my skin like sandpaper against new wood. As a rule the scruffy look didn’t appeal to me but in this case it stimulated interest to a face otherwise lacking character. That would come with age and a few disappointments. As for now, he and Margo were all but panting in anticipation of their upcoming romantic interlude, one destined to end with the last day of her vacation.

“Before we get comfortable, I
must show you my home,” Giorgio said. He took Margo’s hand and she took mine. “This apartment has belonged to the Molina family for almost five centuries,” he said.

The ceilings were fifteen feet high, the stucco walls two feet thick, and the furniture massive but understated. Two large bedrooms separated a ceramic-tiled bathroom boasting a claw-foot tub so deep had
it been filled with water, I could’ve floated in it, plus a shower with multiple heads strategically placed to tickle fantasies I’d yet to experience. Modern appliances surrounded by an intricate design of tiles made the small kitchen warm and inviting, as did the long, wooden table where I pictured Mama Molina rolling out thin sheets of pasta dough.

“We must have some of Margo’s wine,” Giorgio said after
completing the tour. He uncorked one of the Classico Chiantis, sniffed the cork, and with a satisfied grin poured three goblets. We each took one, clicked them together.

“Salute,”
he said,
“viva mio amore.”

“And to the next four days,” Margo
countered.

“To Cin
que Terre,” I replied before taking a sip to steady my shaky hand.

Giorgio gathered plates
and utensils from a hutch so old its finish had been worn to a fine patina. I arranged cheese and fruit on a tray while Margo sliced bread on the same angle Mom insisted we do at home. Then Margo cut her finger, which gave Giorgio an excuse to play doctor by sucking blood from her wound while I finished the bread. Duties accomplished, we carried our lunch to a table on the balcony, sat down, and from this divine perch observed the bustling scene below.

The never-ending buzz from countless
Vespas zipping through the street drifted upwards, along with the rapid snippets of Italian dialogue, most of which escaped my understanding, not that I cared. At that moment I felt more Italian than at any time during the previous two weeks of my holiday. Giorgio must’ve sensed the magic too, in a peripheral way since he leaned over the table and pressed Margo’s hand to his lips. Looking at me from over his shoulder, Margo puckered her lips into a cupid’s bow, leaving me little choice other than sticking out my tongue. A burst of giggles dispelled the moment. Margo’s hand slipped away from Giorgio’s and slid over to the cheese at the same time mine did. We both went for thin shavings of pecorino, its salty bite enhancing the sweet peaches and apricots.

The three of us
ate with the gusto of a Roman orgy, or in this case Florentine. Giorgio wanted the lowdown on American movie stars so Margo and I dished out thirty minutes of tabloid gossip as if we actually knew the red-carpet celebrities whose lives we discussed in such precise detail. When he left to open more wine, Margo asked what I thought of her mummy now. I could’ve lied or given her a smarmy response but instead tempered my answer with a bit of uncharacteristic diplomacy.

“I can understand your wanting to stay in Florence. Giorgio is quite the hottie.”

“Good, then it’s settled. Tomorrow we’ll move our things over here.”