Italy to Die For (16 page)

“
Never do that unless you mean it,” he said, again in a whisper. “In Italy the corna is very, very bad.”

“How bad?”
I asked.

“Worse than an insult, more like a curse. Si, a curse, very bad … a curse
should not be put upon without good reason.”

“Which explains wh
y The Mama from Hell put one on me,” I said.

“What, you didn’
t tell me,” El said.

“
You didn’t seem interested. Besides, at the time Giorgio’s mama giving me two fingers didn’t seem nearly as bad as her throwing euros at me. So now I’m cursed, which explains the alley incident—a gypsy hit man out to get me.”

“Please signorini
, both of you. Do not let imagination overrule the common sense God has given you.”

“Easy enough for you,” Ellen said. “They’re your relatives
.”

“
Those renegades, please, do not cast this aspersion on me or my family. Not one ounce of common blood flows through our veins, which means I take no responsibility for the actions of these non-relatives. Nor they for mine.”

“They, who are they,” I said. “We want names.”

“
The man, Tas. His woman, Lila; that is all I can tell you. Take the advice of a Roma who knows more than you ever will: forget the unfortunate incident.”

“One that better not be repeated,” I said.

“Again, I cannot be responsible for the actions of those outside my own tribe.”

By this time
the platter of goodies had arrived, along with three small plates. Fonso helped himself and with a wave of his hand invited us to do the same. I couldn’t resist cheese so pungent and creamy; the figs sweet enough but not cloying. El reached for the bread but changed her mind when she noticed I hadn’t taken any.

“Then what about my money
,” she said. “It was still in my wallet, both in the woman’s possession when she died.”

“
This we do not understand,” Fonso said. “But we are considering a possible connection between the murders and the assault on the beautiful Signorina Margo.”

Well, at least he
got that part right, which prompted me to ask, “Are you saying it’s possible the perpetrator was not one of your people?”

“In spi
te of what outsiders believe us to be and of those centuries-old legends that haunt us to this day, we Roma, for the most part, are not murderers. Unless there is a compelling reason that cannot be ignored—retribution, infidelity, cheating, thievery within the tribe—the usual reasons men have been killing each other since the beginning of time. Now the killing of women …” he cocked his head, “that, dear ladies, is most despicable. Crimes of passion, jealous lovers—possibly, although I only know of three or four such instances in the past ten years, no different from the non-gypsy world, would you not say?”

I couldn’
t argue with him there, although I only knew murderers through the evening news or newspapers or so-called entertainment, never up close and personal. Not to be outdone, I threw him another loop, one I couldn’t resist. “So, how does Lorenzo Gentili fit into this?”

Fonso lathered
soft cheese on a piece of bread. After sticking a fig on top, he bit down and with clenched teeth tore half the bread away from his mouth. In between chews he managed to say, “Lorenzo and I go back a long way. He is a man of integrity. An ambassador for all of Cinque Terre is my understanding, although my people and I are only passing through.”

“You’re evading the question,” I said. “
You need to level with my sister and me, or this conversation ends as of now. What is the connection between you and Lorenzo?”

He opened his palms.
“A relative by way of marriage, any more will have to come from him and not me.”

El shook her head. She to
ok another sip of wine, followed by two more before speaking. “I’m still confused.”

“Me too,
” I said. “Just what can you do for us and what can we do for you?”

“
More than you could possibly imagine. For the duration of your stay, allow me and my men to follow the two of you. Ideally, from time to time you should go your separate ways, especially during the evening hours.”

“To give the killer a better opportunity to kill one of us, you have got to be kidding.”

“In spite of what Commissario Dante Novaro may have told you, we—my people and I—believe the murderer will come after one or both of you again.” Fonso took a swallow of wine, once more wiped his mouth, and added, “Just as he did with our women.”

“Your women,
” El said. “I take it the victims had names.”

“
Si,
forgive me for not identifying them sooner. These were women in the highest esteem, women who knew how to eat and drink and make love, although this I did not experience firsthand from either of them. Nadya was first to die. An earlier attempt on her life failed; the circumstances of which to the everlasting regret of our family we did not pursue.”

“Please don’t tell me those circumstances occurred in a dark alley,” I said.

“Better you should not dwell on the negative,” Fonso said. “Tania was the second victim. To our knowledge there was but one attempt on Tania and unfortunately so unexpected it caught us off guard. Never again, there must never be a third. Nor should it extend to one such as yourself who clearly despises our people.”

“I beg to differ, more like fear.”

“Either way, these unfortunate incidents tend to create an irreversible domino effect. Now, about our proposal ….”

His prop
osal, please, I wanted to barf but instead maintained a composure that would’ve pleased Mom. “This is positively ludicrous,” I told El. “And most definitely not our problem. Let’s go home, I mean to St. Louis, not that apartment where you … never mind.”

D
id she listen to me? No. Instead, she egged on the gypsy with one inane question after the other until one of those questions told me she might be reverting to her normal self. “About these men following us,” El went on, “how will we know the good guys from the bad?”

I drained my glass and not waiting for Fonso,
poured more for myself.

“You must
put your trust in me,” he said. “On my honor as a Roma I will not fail either of you. Nor will those who have already pledged their allegiance to this mission.”

“Just thinking about this gives me the willies,” El said. “Still, to be part of—
”

“Speak for yourself, El. I’m not on board.”
Yet
, I almost added but still wasn’t sold on the stupid idea. “For the life of me, or perhaps I should say death, I’m just not … uh, conceptualizing this whole thing.”

Fonso spoke while using a bread heel to clean up
bits and dribbles from the platter. “Must I remind you again: my tribal brothers and I come from the loins of the purist of Roma, the undiluted blood of our ancestors flows through the veins of the most restless among us. Repeated attempts to understand our motives will only confuse you to the point of paranoia.”

“I’m not
confused,” El said.

“Me either.”
I grabbed her hand as a sign of solidarity and to keep it from trembling any more than it already was. “We have to see who my protectors are. Otherwise, it’s a definite no-go.”

Fonso sighed, the first si
gn of giving in. “Very well, but to waste another day could result in another death, perhaps yours, Signorina Margo.” He turned to El. “Or yours, Signorina Elena.”

“I say we go home, El.”

“That will not be necessary,” Fonso said. “Come to San Giovanni Battista this afternoon at five o’clock. You will find my men kneeling in prayer, every other pew on the right side. Circle around the church from left to right but only glance in their direction once or twice. They already know who you are. Do not, under any circumstances, engage them in any communication whatsoever, written, verbal, or through eye contact.
Campira, signorini
?”

Okay, okay, we got it. And Fonso got the hell out
of there.

***

El and I spent the rest of our afternoon strolling around the shops and buying souvenirs we didn’t need and more than enough for the folks back home. At one of the better shops a clerk recognized El and to my surprise asked if she had changed her mind about the earrings.

“Earrings, which pai
r?” I asked. “Show me.”

The clerk o
pened the case, brought out these amber stones, and handed them to me.

I went to the mirror, brushed my hair back,
and held one earring to the right of my face while El stood behind me. “They’re absolutely gorgeous, El, you really should treat yourself.”

“
I know I’m worth it,” she said. “And more, but they’re still too expensive.”

“
Not for me.” I handed the earrings back to the clerk along with my credit card. El’s silence spoke volumes. I could feel her seething. Little did she know that I’d be giving the earrings to her later, my way of saying thanks for putting up with the occasional rant. Sometimes I tend to get a little bitchy, okay major bitchy. But, hey, what are big sisters for, if not to remind little sisters who came first.

***

At five o’clock sharp I strolled into the church with El at my side. We began our cruise around the perimeter, starting from the left per Fonso’s instructions. A handful of tourists following our same path made the two of us less obvious, as did a few older women seated in pews, quietly chatting behind their opened palms. I glanced to the far side where four men dressed in casual clothes were kneeling, just as Fonso had told us. Other than their dark hair and olive complexions, which could’ve set them apart as gypsies, or Italians, Spaniards, or any number of other Southern Europeans, the men could’ve passed for ordinary tourists; or as locals to those who didn’t know any better.

“Fonso should’ve given us their names,” El whispered as we circled around
to the outer aisle where the men had stationed themselves: two with rosaries; one in a trance; the other with chin resting on hands clasped in prayer.

“It’s not as if we’ll be
hanging out with them,” I said.

“True, but I prefer
putting a face with a name.”

“H
ow about this: Matt, Mark, Luke, and John. One, two, three, four, now take a good look and implant each face into your brain.”

“Matt
, red t-shirt; Mark, blue; Luke, brown, and John … pot belly. Okay, we can leave now.”

“Did it ever occur to you they might change clothes.”

“Stop it, Margo. You’re confusing me.”

Spoken like a
true Savino, make that more Mom’s side of the family. She would’ve loved El’s reasoning. Not that she would ever hear about this incident from my lips. Or, from El’s, who held back more than I ever did, but then over the years there’d been so little she had to confess. Some experiences in life are better left unshared with Moms. Dads, too, but ours had died five years before. Still missed him and being Daddy’s Little Girl.

Chapter 24

Shoulder Stand

When Margo and I walked out of San Giovanni Battista the late afternoon of Monterosso greeted us with a slight dip in temperature. How Lorenzo had spent his afternoon remained a question mark with me although no doubt he knew how Margo and I had spent ours. I half-way hoped, better yet expected, to find him waiting, well-dressed and so European. No such luck. Instead it was his Zio Bernardo Cozzani who greeted us with that irresistible smile. Even Margo took to him, which didn’t surprise me, given her penchant for anyone and anything Italian. He latched onto her first, taking her hand into his and pressing the back of it to his mouth for a light kiss. The veins almost popped through his expressive hands and made me wonder about the rest of what must’ve been a sinewy body. Good grief, the man would never see ninety again. I couldn’t believe my own thoughts, the attraction I felt when he then kissed my hand and lingered there until I pulled away.

As usual he spoke in Italian, which Margo interpreted as
Lorenzo being otherwise occupied had sent his uncle to entertain us.

“
Bernardo has invited us to dinner,” she said with a grin. “What do you think?”

“There’s safety in three more so than two?”
I asked, tongue in cheek. Anything to inject a bit of humor into our situation and to make up for the moodiness I’d inflicted on Margo.

“Agree. Besides it sure beats rattling around in that apartment … not that I don’t appreciate Lorenzo’s hospitality but he’s not there and we’re here.”

As with Lorenzo, Bernardo Cozzani was a respected fixture in the village. Every encounter with a local required some type of acknowledgment, from a simple exchange of nods to kisses in the Italian way or robust handshakes and pats on the shoulder. After twenty minutes of
bona-sera
greetings we finally stopped at a trattoria with outside seating and only one empty table. Reserved, just our luck, I pictured another back room, another sinister meeting with gypsies dressed like tourists that I still didn’t trust. Wrong again, Signore Cozzani had already reserved the empty table for the three of us.

W
e sat down and the waiter appeared with a bottle of wine, compliments of the house. Bernardo asked permission to order on behalf of Margo and me, a relief since I wasn’t in the mood for agonizing over another plate of this or that. Good choice. What I thought would be a meal fit for a geriatric tract turned into five courses and three more bottles of wine, an event that went on for at least three hours and only started to end with the last bit of setting sun, a sight that will stay burned in my memory for as long as I can hold it there. As will being party to a scene I’d love to erase from the absurd portion of my brain. That of getting caught in the absurd crossfire of Bernardo and Margo playing footsies under the table while they chatted in Italian, more like flirted from what little I understood of Italian erotica. It only got worse when Bernardo stood and buttoned his jacket in spite of the warm evening. After excusing himself, he headed for the restroom. In a matter of seconds Margo pushed back her chair and got up with a wiggle that left little doubt of her intentions.

“
Excuse me,” she said with a wink. “I feel the need.”

“No way,” was all I could say.

Yes, with Margo there was always a need to be fulfilled and a way to fulfill that need. She hurried off to the toilette or wherever they’d agreed to meet while I sat alone at the table, resisting the urge to drum my fingers. Instead, I surveyed the crowded scene of strolling tourists, hoping to spot our bodyguards. None of which I could make out, unless they were disguised as sandy-haired German tourists in Birkenstock sandals or just plain Americans in high-end Nikes. As in Jonathan from Iowa and his buddy Trevor, who just happened by no more than eight feet from our table, and appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation that seemed out of sync with their behavior I’d witnessed earlier.

T
o my surprise and perhaps a need for
Made in America
I initiated the first contact, with a wave of fingers and cheerful call out. “Jonathan, over here. It’s me: Ellen.”

Jonathan
jerked his head in my direction. He almost tripped over his feet, ending the discussion with Trevor. A few quick strides brought both guys to my table. A brief exchange of hugs followed, more in the reserved style of Americans than in the Italian way, which suited me just fine. Although at that moment I could’ve used a hug from Lorenzo instead of chitchat going nowhere.

“Don’t tell me your sister deserted you,”
Jonathan said.

“Hardly, she’s powdering her nose.”

“Do women still do that?” Trevor asked.

“Last time I checked they did,” said
Jonathan.

“I’d ask you to sit but Margo and our gentleman friend will be back any moment.”

“Not a problem,” Trevor said. “We’ll get up when they return.” He pulled out a chair and sat, as did Jonathan who snagged two clean glasses from a passing waiter. Trevor filled them from a bottle sitting on the table.

“Are you still having fun?
” Jonathan asked.

“More than I ever dreamed possible.” I didn’t go into the scary stuff, imagined
or otherwise.

We made small talk until Margo returned with
her face flushed but otherwise showing no sign of spontaneous sex. I didn’t know if I should laugh or threaten to tell our mother who would’ve been appalled beyond words. Margo blessed the guys with light pecks to the check and Trevor almost fell out of his chair when he gave it up to her. Bernardo soon followed, with an added spring in his step and a smile I didn’t think possible from one so … so, mature.

Margo introduced
our host who didn’t seem to mind the prospect of competition young enough to be his grandsons. After all, he’d enjoyed the attention of two ever-so-grateful females for an entire evening. And knowing Margo, I was confident that she given him fifteen of the best minutes he’d experienced in quite some time. Or, not, with these Italians anything was possible. Or so I’d been told.

While
Bernardo settled the bill and Margo chatted about Cinque Terre with the Americans, I checked the outside pockets of my handbag to make sure Lorenzo’s keys were still there. No, not that pocket … or that pocket … yes, that one.

Memo
to self:

There is
such a thing as having too many pockets.

“How about o
ne more stop,” Jonathan said. “Nothing says
sweet
like cold beer to end a hot, summer evening.”

“
Unless it’s Sambucca with coffee beans,” Margo said. Her comment came as no surprise to me. Nor when she added: “After all, we are in Italy.”

“
Hot or cold, whatever turns you on,” Trevor said.

Evidently not Trev
or because Margo came back with, “It’s been a long, tough day, and though I can’t speak for El, I’m so bushed I could fall asleep standing up.”

That’s my
Margo. She’d rather make out with an older-than-dirt Lothario than make time for a pair of Americans too ordinary for words.

“Then let us walk you home,” Tr
evor said. “A night with this kind of wow factor shouldn’t go to waste.”

This time I spoke up. “
Taxi, please. My leg is killing me.”

“Signore Cozzani has already arranged for one,” Margo said
with a grateful squeeze to his hand. She stood up, pulling me with her. “Here it comes now.”

The ta
xi pulled up, prompting a round of hugs and kisses, this time to include Jonathan and Trevor whose extended hug turned into an awkward squeeze that did nothing for me. Unlike the one from Bernardo, which to my embarrassment, I found most intriguing:
like uncle like nephew
. One glance over Bernardo’s shoulder showed me a look of annoyance pass over Trevor’s face, as if I cared. Then Bernardo moved from me to Trevor—no hugs, just another exchange of handshakes that ended when a tourist accidentally stumbled into Trevor and couldn’t get through apologizing in what sounded like an Irish brogue. Another thing I was growing to love about Cinque Terre, the international atmosphere of friendly camaraderie.

Two quick
beeps from the taxi driver ended the evening farewells. Jonathan hurried to the vehicle, opened the back door, and I slid in first.

“What about tomorrow?
” he asked, his words following Margo as she joined me. “If you have nothing better to do, meet us on that concrete slab above the beach, around ten in the morning, okay?”

“Our treat,” Trevor said. “Whatever
turns you on.”

Or off
since I could feel Margo nudging me with her foot. “Can’t think straight right now,” she said. “If we’re not there by ten-thirty, don’t wait any longer.”

As our taxi pulled away,
I made a mental note of the driver’s name and photo displayed on his official I.D: Giovanni Colombo. “Ask the driver how long he’s lived here,” I whispered to Margo.

“He’s too short,” she said.

“What’s that got to do with his residency?”

“Not a damn thing. He’s too short to be the guy who tried to kill me.”

I looked over my shoulder, checked out the rear view scene.

“Any sign of Matt, Mark, Luke
or John?” she asked.

“I suppose one of them could be jumping from rooftop to rooftop.”

“Only if they were stunt men in a movie,” Margo said. With that she leaned forward and said something to the driver, to which he responded with a string of words and gestures too fast for me to understand.

“
He has another fare to pick up,” Margo said. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

“
A likely story, what if he heads out of town?”

“Two against one, we’ll
open the doors and take a leap of faith.”

It became a non-issue as soon as t
he driver picked up his second fare. Wouldn’t you know: another couple who couldn’t speak a word of Italian. Nor English, so Margo couldn’t help out even if she hadn’t dozed off and started that infernal snoring again. After a scenario similar to the night before, but minus the regurgitation stops for Margo, our driver finally delivered the couple to their hotel.

Ten minutes later
he deposited Margo and me in front of Lorenzo’s building. When Margo tried to pay the driver, he showed his palm and told her Signore Cozzani had already taken care of it. That much I understood but should’ve had my head on straight instead of waiting for the taxi to disappear down the street. Only then did I start fumbling around in the side pockets of my handbag.

“Make it snappy
,” Margo said. “I feel like a sitting duck out here.”

“The keys are
supposed to be here but they’re not.”

“
Great,” Margo said. “The damn things must’ve fallen out. They’re probably sitting on the floor of the taxi.”

“I
don’t suppose you have Bernardo Cozzani’s phone number?”

“Why would I?
”

“
Isn’t that what close friends do, exchange phone numbers?”

“Should the need arise, he knows where to find me.
Did you get the name of the restaurant?”

“Not exactly, of course I didn’
t, Margo. Did you?”

“Call Lorenzo, call him r
ight now before we take one more step into the dark. Maybe he keeps an extra set hidden somewhere.”

Lorenzo, yes
, I should’ve thought of him right away instead of playing games with Margo. I found his number on my cell’s contact list and pressed the button. He didn’t answer until the fourth ring.

“Elena? Is everything all right?
I had an emergency in La Spezia but I am now on my way back.”

I felt like such a fool, telling him I’d lost the key
s. “By any chance do you have another set hidden someplace? Or perhaps a neighbor has one.”

“My neighbor went to Genoa for several days but I
do keep an extra set on the ledge above the door. Is Margo there with you?”

“
Where else would she be,” I said with more sarcasm than he deserved. “I suppose one of us will have to stand on the other’s shoulders to reach the keys.” I pointed to the door, one with Old World charm that had to be at least fourteen-feet high and prompted Margo to blow me a raspberry. I already knew who’d wind up on the bottom, which maybe wasn’t such a bad place to be.

“I regret
…” Lorenzo said before cutting out on me.

“Lorenzo
… talk to me. Any idea when you—”

“Sorry …
not hear …”

“Ask him about the gypsies?”

“Too late. He must’ve hit a dead zone.”

“Dead zone, ugh,” Margo said. “That could be
us unless we get that door open.” She hurried toward it with me on her heels. “Damn, El, this takes me back to our cheerleading days.”