The Body in the Piazza (14 page)

Tom's in the shower. The pool is wonderful and we had it to ourselves. Len had disappeared, thank goodness. Swimming under the Tuscan sun with the smell of jasmine in the air is just what we needed. It would all be so perfect if it wasn't so not perfect. That's the only way I can describe it. Far from perfect. The water stopped. Time for cocktails on the terrace.

F
aith stood sipping a Campari and soda with a twist of lime, trying to figure out how to introduce the question of Jack's and Sky's occupations into the flow of conversation when Len Russo beat her to it.

“So what do you do out there in California, Jack?”

Len was on his second martini. When Terry had objected, telling him that he could get those at home and why not try something Italian, he'd shut her up with, “What do you think the name ‘Martini' is? Polish?”

Faith was liking him less with each passing moment and was tempted to tell him that the cocktail was born in the USA, prompting H. L. Mencken to call it “the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.”

“So what do you and the little woman do?” Len repeated.

“Well, Len, we both like to surf. Sky's better than I am.”

He was drinking Prosecco, as was she.

Len didn't let it go. “That's nice, but you didn't answer my question. What's putting the bread on the table?”

His wife shot him a warning look, which he ignored.

“We're both in PR,” Jack said. “What about you? What's your line of work?”

Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Len said, “I'm in waste management.” Whatever either was going to say or not say was forestalled by Gianni's appearance with a tray of antipasti. Tom said softly to Faith, “Isn't that what all those Sopranos were in?”

She shook her head in a “not now” gesture. She was pretty sure Len Russo was no wiseguy and was just putting them all on. She'd be willing to bet he was an insurance salesman or if he did have something to do with waste management it was managing a business that cleaned people's septic tanks.

Francesca had sent out the
grissini
wrapped in prosciutto, roasted peppers, olives, marinated artichoke hearts, wedges of pecorino, some caponata, and the zucchini blossoms stuffed with fresh ricotta, floured and fried—delectable. A basket held small slices of several kinds of focaccia, lightly toasted.

Food is magic, Faith thought, not for the first time in her life. Oil—in this case, olive—upon troubled waters. The mood had changed instantly as everyone began to eat. Even the Nashes unbent, and Constance started asking the Culvers about what they had done in Florence that day. Of course it was no doubt so she could tell them all the places they'd missed and that they had gone to the wrong shops, but it was at least a step toward amiability. Gianni freshened drinks and Faith reached into her pocket for her camera. A nice scene for her trip album.

It was as if she had pulled out a Beretta. Every head save Tom's and Gianni's ducked.

“No pictures! I haven't done my face,” Hattie said.

“Roderick and I do not like to be in other people's snaps,” Constance said. The others said nothing, but their actions spoke louder than words. Len put a hand, fingers spread out, in front of his face. After ducking, Sky and Jack turned to enjoy the view to the rear. Olivia actually left the terrace, leaving her drink, so far untouched, on the table.

“Sorry,” Faith apologized. “Maybe some other time.”

But there wouldn't be another time. For whatever reasons, and each was bound to be different, no one in the group wanted to be photographed.

“Time to go to work!” Francesca said gaily, coming out the door. “Or we won't be eating until midnight!”

A
fter Faith was sure that everyone else had gone into the kitchen, she told Tom she wanted to “freshen up a bit.” She'd had an idea and she might not get another chance. Olivia had rejoined the others as soon as Francesca had come out onto the terrace. Judging from what the girl had been carrying on the train, Olivia packed as lightly as the Fairchilds; and Faith wanted to take a quick look at what was in her knapsack, mainly her passport. Hotels and other places routinely requested them, recording the information, but she didn't feel comfortable asking the Rossis for a peek at a guest's private information. Plus they'd wonder why Faith didn't ask Olivia outright.

She was sure Olivia's room would be locked, but she also thought the key to her and Tom's room would work—all the locks were the same vintage. She walked to the end of the hall where she'd seen Olivia's name on a door, slipped the key in, and turned. It was almost too simple. Yes, she should not be doing this and yes, she wasn't going to tell Tom, but she was doing it for Freddy. There was a tangle of loose ends surrounding Miss Olivia and it was time to tie some together.

The room was a smaller version of theirs—no balcony, but a spectacular view across the valley and walls painted the color of lavender honey—gold with a slight amethyst sheen. Olivia was tidy, or it may have been because she didn't have much with her. A quick look in the bath revealed a minimum of shampoo and other beauty products, but a separate makeup bag was jam-packed. Then Faith went to the armoire and opened it. A few shirts, a jacket, and jeans hung on hangers, along with what looked like a Liberty-print bathrobe. A surprise—Olivia had struck her more as the deadly nightshade floral type as opposed to multicolored tiny posies. Rubber flip-flops, a pair of sandals, and Reeboks were lined up beneath. There were underwear, socks, sweaters, a bikini, and some scarves in a pile next to the shoes. The knapsack was there and it was empty.

Faith turned to the small desk by the window. Guides to Rome, Florence, and a general one for Italy plus maps were stacked in a pile. There were a few new postcards and a pen. The drawer was empty.

She was running out of time. On the nightstand next to the bed, there was an unopened bottle of water and a book—a Lindsey Davis mystery set in ancient Rome—half-read from the bookmark. She opened that drawer. Pay dirt.

A gun small enough to fit in the palm of one's hand was lying neatly next to a package of tissues and a tin of cough suppressants. Small, but deadly. The same as Olivia herself, Faith was beginning to think.

T
he vibe in the kitchen upon her entry could only be described as hilarious. Len wasn't even pretending to cook but had opened the wine that Faith was sure the Rossis had intended for the meal and taken it upon himself to dispense it liberally. Her eyes went to Olivia immediately. She was joining in, but alcohol had nothing to do with it. Save for the welcome Prosecco aperitif last night, Faith hadn't seen her drink anything except Pellegrino. There hadn't been a passport, euros, or credit cards in Olivia's room. Now that she knew to look for it, Faith saw the string around Olivia's neck. She must have everything in one of those traveler's pouches. Her loose black tee would conceal it well. Her phone was clipped to her belt. It was camera, notebook, everything all in one. She'd have no need of a purse or other satchel, except when she was traveling from place to place.

Again they had been divided into groups and Faith joined the threesome of Hattie, Luke, and Constance, assuming that was where she'd been assigned.

“We're making panna cotta for tomorrow night,” Hattie informed her. “It has to be chilled for at least five hours and it's even better overnight, you know. I just love it. We're doing a pure heavy cream version, no yogurt. Too bad about the calories!”

The vino had definitely loosened the woman's tongue, and now she, like Sally last night, was revealing that she knew far more about food, Italian food in particular, than she had let on. But then this was the sort of easy dessert that was sure to have been featured on the cooking channels numerous times. It was one of Faith's standbys for dinner parties. She looked at the sheet Francesca had given the group. It was the classic recipe, literally “cooked cream”: gelatin, sugar, heavy cream, and a bit of both vanilla and almond extracts (see recipe in Excerpts from
Have Faith in Your Kitchen
). They had progressed to the stage where they were dissolving the sugar into the mixture. Mario had set trays with small ramekins out on a counter. There wasn't anything for Faith to do at this point, but she got a large pitcher ready. Easier to pour the liquid than ladle it into the ramekins.

“Very digestible,” Constance said. “And when our summer fruits come in—neighbors joke that Roderick and I could be supplying Tiptree, they have a Royal Warrant from the queen, you know—I simply mound each portion with berries on top or some of the preserves that haven't been put up.”

This was all getting quite jolly. Faith looked over to see what Tom was doing. He was in the
porchetta
group with Olivia, Sally, and Len. Even coming in late, Faith could see that the two women had taken charge and the men were happy to look on as they deftly rolled and tied the pork.

“What's in the stuffing?” she called over to them.

Tom answered, glancing at the sheet. “Sautéed onions and garlic, rosemary, stems and all, parsley, those zucchini flowers, figs, wild fennel, salt, pepper. Francesca sometimes uses sautéed chicken livers, too, but she wants us to taste the meat by itself tonight. I cut up one of the onions.” He was clearly proud of himself.

“And into the oven it goes,” Sally said with a flourish as she shut the door. Her face was red either from the heat in the kitchen or the glass Len was refilling.

He appeared to have appointed himself tonight's cruise director. To make up for his earlier sour behavior toward his wife?

“The meat will take an hour and a half or so,” Francesca said, “which gives us time to make the risotto for
Il Primo
and do a vegetable to go with the meat.”

What had the third group been making? Faith went over to the table where Terry, Roderick, Sky, and Jack were busy making what was probably
Il Dolce,
dessert.

“Olive oil cake,” Terry said in answer to Faith's questioning look. “I've never heard of it, but I'll try anything once.”

“I've had it,” Faith said, not revealing that it was Francesca who had given her the delicious recipe, one of her grandmother's. Italian grandmothers were responsible for most of the best recipes the country had produced, it seemed. Besides the olive oil, which had to be extra-extra-virgin, the
torta
called for the juice and zest of an orange, flour, sugar, milk, eggs, and ground almonds. It was extremely rich. She'd have to pace herself, reflecting that she'd been saying this at every meal so far on the trip.

She went back to her group to finish the panna cotta and put it into the refrigerator.

Constance had a spoon in her hand and was dipping it into the large saucepan. She blew on it slightly and tasted it. The spoon flew from her hand and she screamed at Francesca, “Your cream is sour! Get me some water immediately!”

Mario dashed to the sink with a glass.

“Not tap water, you fool!”

He ran to get bottled.

“How can this be? I bought it yesterday and we had it this morning for the
colazione
?”

Francesca walked over and tasted the mixture herself. From her face it was obvious that Constance had been right.

“Do you have more in the fridge?” Faith asked, thinking she could quickly make another batch.

“Yes,” Francesca said, and Faith followed her. Meanwhile Constance was in fine fettle, proclaiming she'd almost been poisoned. Her stomach was a delicate one and she'd often found that notions of hygiene and safe food preparation were “vastly different” abroad than at “home.”

Faith took a spoon and tasted the container in the refrigerator. Sour as well.

She shook her head, and Francesca whispered, “I got it from the same place I get it all the time. Many of us had it earlier, including Mrs. Nashe. She had a lot of it on her fruit. Nothing was wrong.”

“These things happen,” Faith reassured her. “I can make a new batch in the morning when you get more cream. There will be plenty of time for it to get cold enough for dinner tomorrow night.”

“We can do it together; I'll send Mario early.”

But these things
didn't
happen. Not in Faith's experience. From now on she'd be keeping a close eye on all the ingredients. Unless she was very much mistaken, someone was tampering with them. To close Cucina della Rossi down before it even got started? Or for some other darker reason?

Len was pouring Constance the wine equivalent of a double and she appeared to be calming down somewhat, uttering only a few asides about salmonella and mad cows.

“Why don't we combine all our groups and make the rest of the meal together?” Francesca said. “I need people to clean and chop the mushrooms for the risotto and more to prepare the vegetable
contorni
.”

The vegetable turned out to be cannellini beans with tiny new carrots from the garden, garlic—always garlic—fresh thyme, chopped tomato, and diced
pancetta,
the bacon cooked to a crisp. It involved much chopping, and increasingly, much laughter. Once again, food had done the trick, and the panna cotta mishap was soon a distant memory, if a memory at all.

What wasn't a distant memory was the gun she had seen in Olivia's room. Why would she leave it there, somewhat in plain sight? Faith assumed whoever made up the rooms didn't open drawers, but there was no way of telling that. Maybe Olivia was packing during the day. She'd been wearing light cotton cargo pants with plenty of pockets. Once they were back from Florence, she might have placed the gun in the drawer so it would be out of the way while she cooked, figuring the room had already been made up. Maybe the reason she had it at all was simply because she was a woman traveling alone? A habit honed by growing up in the Outback?