The Body in the Piazza (15 page)

By the time they sat down for
Il Primo,
the risotto prepared with wild mushrooms and truffle oil, Faith was hungry again. Smell played such a crucial part in cooking—and appetite. She doubted she'd be this ravenous if she hadn't been immersed in the kitchen's aromas.

It was close to midnight when they finished the last course, the olive oil cake served with mint gelato, the fresh tang a perfect foil for the rich
torta
. What was the name of the Florentine
gelateria
Freddy had told them was the best in the world? The Rossis would know.

“Your gelato is fantastic, Francesca, but I'm trying to remember the name of a place in Florence especially known for their unusual flavors that our friend Freddy told us about. Something like Serafina?”

Luke answered instead. “It's Carapina and whoever gave you the tip must be a connoisseur. It is the best place in Italy and I think I have tried them all from the tip of the boot to the Alps. It's easy to find. They have two stores. I'll mark your map.”

“We need to put it on the list,” Gianni said. “How could we forget? It's all made by hand, no mix. I like to get a
doppio,
ricotta and chestnut. And any of their chocolates.”

No one seemed in a hurry to go to bed, except for herself, Faith reflected. People drifted out to the terrace. It was a warm night and the stars were out blanketing the sky with tiny points of light. Much as she longed to crawl beneath the sheets with Tom, she followed the Russos and sat down. This was one of the times that she knew might occur more frequently as the week progressed, when she would have liked not to be part of a group, but on her own with Tom and maybe the Rossis.

Gianni was offering grappa. Faith had had enough to drink and the meal had made her thirsty. She got some water and noticed that Constance was doing the same. Like Olivia, she wasn't a big drinker, Faith had noticed. Roderick—and seriously, did she always call him that, even in the throes of passion?—had as usual partaken freely of the grape all night and was continuing to do so. He could hold his liquor, though, or perhaps he was just used to holding his tongue. He was no more talkative than he ever was.

“What's the schedule for tomorrow?” Jack asked.

The next day was a full one. Luke had invited everyone for lunch at his villa. Afterward, the Rossis had arranged visits to several wineries and the place that pressed their olives.

“I thought those of you who wished could join me in the kitchen after breakfast and make several kinds of biscotti. I mean the kind you think of as a biscotti. We use the word ‘biscotti' to mean all cookies, or what the British call biscuits.”

Sally, who was feeling no pain, said, “Whoa, doesn't ‘biscotti' just mean ‘twice baked'? Because you bake them again after you slice them?”

Her aunt looked perturbed and said quickly, “We learned this from Giada's Food Network show.”

“Well, wherever you learned it, it's correct and I will show anyone who wants to join me how to do it tomorrow. We will have them later for dessert with the panna cotta and a glass of vin santo from one of the wineries. After the biscotti come out of the oven, we'll go to see Luke's house and have lunch, then visit the places on the list in your packets. We should be able to get to most of them.”

“And,” Gianni added with enthusiasm, “we'll have time to detour to a few of the
pievi,
the area's Romanesque parish churches. We can't let poor Tom go too long without being in one, but we won't make him do a service!”

Cat's out of the bag, Faith thought and saw the dismay on Tom's face as well. It had only been a matter of time, though.

“But how is it that you are a
prete
when you are married to this
bella donna
?” Luke asked.

“I'm a Protestant clergyman, not a Roman Catholic priest,” Tom explained. “And I'm very definitely on vacation, so feel free to behave as if I were any other profession.”

“Waste management?” Jack said slyly, looking at Len, who appeared to find the remark hysterically funny.

Faith tapped Tom on the hand, their signal for “Let's get out of here.” She had had enough of her fellow classmates for now. A very long day.

“Good night, everyone,” she said, standing up. “And thank you, Gianni and Francesca, again for everything. I don't think I've ever eaten so well on a single day before.”

Tom rose also, but before he could follow his wife into the house, Sky put her hand on his arm and stopped him. “Wait a minute. You're not a priest, but isn't it the same? The secrets of the confessional. I mean you can't tell anyone what someone tells you,” she asked.

“That's the idea,” Tom said affably. “Fortunately no one's confessed to murder.”

It was an unfortunate example; the group went dead silent.

T
his early rising thing was in danger of becoming a habit, Faith thought. Even Tom wasn't awake when she crept out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs into the kitchen.

Francesca was, though, and most important, had been up long enough to make coffee.

“Let's do two kinds of panna cotta,” Faith suggested, virtually inhaling the strong cappuccino—the Rossis' morning favorite and, unlike Americans, something Italians never drank later in the day. “The traditional kind and something a little different—lemon, maybe a spice like cardamom or”—she took a sip—“coffee.”

“Do the cardamom and we can add the flavor easily at the end,” Francesca said.

They got to work. Soon trays of ramekins were filled, ready for the fridge. Mario had put the new container of cream straight into Francesca's hands, but both she and Faith tasted it to be sure before they prepared the dish. It was fine. Mario was helping put out the breakfast things and Gianni joined him.

“Sit down and eat something, Faith,” Francesca said when the two men were in the other room. “I hate for you to work this way. It's your time to relax.”

“I
am
relaxed,” Faith said, adding silently, at least now. There was always something calming about finishing food preparation. She knew everyone would love the dessert, topped with a little fruit or drizzled with one of the local honeys. Maybe the notion of feeding people something tasty was why she always felt this way when she'd taken something from the oven or plated a course.

“How do you think it's going?”

Francesca handed her a plate with slices of melon, fresh figs, and two warm
cornetti
on it, placing some preserves within reach.

“I think it's going beautifully. You and Gianni have thought of everything. I'm sure you haven't had any complaints about the accommodations, even from Constance Nashe, and you know the food has been great. But what is going to set you apart from other places—besides the fact that you're both so nice—are things like the excursion to the market yesterday. Without you we would never have met the Baronis, or been able to taste so many different things. It's a culinary education without the pressure of a classroom. No grades, just fun.”

Francesca nodded. “This is what we are hoping. We want to attract those who know a lot and those who know nothing. Today will be similar. They are all our friends. And wait until you see Jean-Luc's house. It makes this look like the poor relations! But Faith”—a shadow crossed her beautiful face—“the spoiled cream. I can't explain it. You don't think it's some kind of omen, do you?”

Remembering that as a younger woman Francesca had been somewhat superstitious, Faith put every ounce of conviction she could muster into her reply. “Absolutely not. It could have been on the point of turning, or something like vinegar accidentally got splashed into it. There are any number of logical explanations. The only omens I've noticed have been favorable ones—the stars that looked like the whole zodiac had settled in just above your terrace last night and when I woke up I saw a ladybug on the windowsill, always a good sign.”

Francesca seemed reassured, and since noise in the next room indicated that some of the guests had arrived for breakfast, she shooed Faith out of the kitchen, pausing to put more coffee on before going in to take orders.

A few hours later, the biscotti (see recipe in Excerpts from
Have Faith in Your Kitchen
) were cooling on racks and Faith went upstairs to change before leaving for lunch. Tom had drifted away shortly after they started the dough, and she suspected the pool had proved more of a lure than baking. Both Culvers had been involved in the entire process, clicking away at the biscotti with the camera and taking copious notes. Constance drifted in and announced that Roderick and she were going to get the paper but would be back in plenty of time for lunch. Francesca told them the nearest place for the
International Herald Tribune,
which is what she assumed they wanted, was in only one spot in the village, but more in Chiusi. Sky and Jack showed up just before breakfast ended and disappeared immediately after, saying something vague about going to look at the olive groves. Faith wondered what the Italian equivalent for a “roll in the hay” was, thinking the idea of one in the fields of poppies and wheat not an unattractive one. Olivia had reverted to her Goth Girl look, which Faith was now beginning to regard as a disguise, just as the freshly scrubbed Cover Girl look was one, too. The woman with a thousand disguises, or was that faces? She had deftly shaped the dough into the long thin loaves, leading Faith to think once more that Olivia was no stranger to cooking techniques. Terry Russo was, however, but eager to learn. Len was conspicuously absent, sleeping in, his wife said. Sleeping it off, more likely, Faith thought.

Up in her room, she quickly changed into a light pair of crop pants and white tee and tied a brightly striped cotton Missoni scarf by way of Target around her neck. The maid had closed the windows, and Faith decided to open them, even though they weren't screened. They dealt with mosquitoes and blackflies in Maine. So far she hadn't seen any similar pests, and the room would be sweltering when they returned if she left them shut. The Rossis had installed central air, but knowing what electricity cost in Italy, Faith hadn't wanted to turn it on.

She stood at the window facing the pool and rear of the house. There was a small garden house, like a gazebo, farther down the slope where Faith assumed they kept extra chairs and other outdoor equipment. They'd trained wisteria over it, which was in full bloom, sending cascades of blossoms over the doorway. As she stood there, Faith saw the door open, and a head popped out. It was Sky and she seemed to be looking about, looking for someone? It was definitely a furtive gesture. She stepped out, and Faith thought it was a shame there weren't people around, especially males, to see how gorgeous the woman was. A white bikini set off her light tan, and her hair almost seemed to have been sprayed with gold leaf. She let the door close behind her and rapidly headed toward the house. Faith started to turn away to pick up her bag, but stopped when she saw the door open again. Jack?

It wasn't Jack. It was Tom. The Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild, her husband.

L
uke's house was everything Francesca had intimated and more.

The villa, much larger than the Rossis', also looked more formal from the outside. The circular drive cut through an extensive, well-tended garden with boxwood hedges and statuary. Their host was waiting for them at the door and came forward, hands outstretched in welcome.

“
Benvenuto!
First we eat, then the guided tour,” he announced, ushering them down the wide center hall, which offered tantalizing glimpses of rooms to either side, before he led them through one of a series of double glass doors to the outside. Beyond was what amounted to an open-air dining room, a lovely loggia. There was a fireplace set into the wall at the far end, and Faith had a sudden desire to give a late-night party here. The table was set with an eclectic mix of antique silver and bright linens Faith recognized from a shopwindow in the nearby village, resolving to pick some up for herself. The long table easily accommodated everyone, and with a flick of a switch Luke activated an awning to provide shade.

Tom had not come up to the room before they left and when Faith joined the group, he was already talking to Len, who seemed to have recovered after his “beauty” sleep. Although they sat next to each other in the van, Faith had resisted saying what was uppermost in her mind, namely, “What exactly were you and Sky, aka Bo Derek, Miss Ten, maybe even Miss Twenty, Miss California, Miss any number of titles, doing in the shed just now?”

She was afraid she'd shout instead of whisper and she was even more afraid of what he might say—something like “What are you talking about?” “Nothing” “She had a thorn in her paw,” all unsatisfactory answers. So, she kept quiet. With difficulty.

Now he was at the other end of the table, laughing at something Hattie was saying and—maybe she might be reading into it, maybe not—ignoring Faith's eye.

In her heart she knew Tom would never cheat on her, no nookie—or gnocchi—having occurred, she was sure, but it was still a shock. And, she'd immediately thought, what if someone else had been looking out at them? The suspicion of a rendezvous was as dangerous as the reality of one in some ways. Dame Rumor.

Luke, or his housekeeper, had prepared a perfect summer meal. They started with an Italian version of gazpacho—a cold tomato soup with chunks of the ripe vegetable and zucchini instead of cucumber, with fresh parsley, a hint of garlic, all of it thickened slightly with bread crumbs. Instead of a first and second course, they'd been combined: cold rice salad with roasted red peppers, diced red onions, blood orange segments, parsley, toasted pignoli, a simple olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing topped with shaved pecorino; alongside slices of cold chicken dressed the same with a hint of rosemary on a bed of field greens.