The Body in the Piazza (24 page)

“I do not know why either, but it is what we call any dish with a fried egg on it,
Pizza alla Bismarck
is another,” Francesca said. “Why don't we make small portions of it, use the wild
asparagi
for a simple
contorni
with butter and maybe a little cheese, with one more dish, an asparagus
sformato,
which is like a soufflé?”

Luke, who seemed an endless font of culinary lore, knew the answer to the question of Bismarck. And it wasn't North Dakota. It was indeed named for the Prussian chancellor.

“Otto von Bismarck was well known not just for his abilities as a statesman and on the battlefield but as a
molto
trencherman who could consume vast amounts of food at one sitting. He was partial to eggs, topping everything from meats to vegetables with plenty of them fried.”

“To do the dish well, we need very fresh eggs, so it is fortunate we are here in the market,” Francesca said. “You need to keep chickens, Jean-Luc, and then we can have the
uova
and a nice bird, too, once in a while.”

“All I know is that with all this asparagus my piss is going to stink,” Len said, and after a glare from his wife, “pardon my French, my
urine
is going to stink.”

Terry wasn't the only one who didn't laugh, or at least smile, at the remark. Olivia seemed miles away, as if she hadn't heard him.

“Well,
odore
or no, let's select our ingredients and then meet back at the van in an hour. Some of you mentioned you wanted time to explore the town,” Francesca said, handing Mario a large market basket. Faith had noticed that the sous chef had not been left behind on his own.

She didn't feel much like exploring, but she did want to sit and look to see whether Hope had texted her yet. The
caffè
where she and Tom had had breakfast a few days ago seemed ideal. She also wanted to pick up a newspaper. The Nashes were not good at sharing theirs. Yesterday Jack had asked to see their
Herald Tribune
and Constance said they weren't finished with it in a tone that really said, “Buy your own.”

It was unlikely there would be anything in the paper relating to what was playing at the Teatro Verdi, or anything else going on in Florence unless it was major news, but Faith thought she should check.

She sat at one of the small tables and ordered an espresso. She was going to miss this, she thought, as she looked out over the square, smaller than the one in Montepulciano but pulsing with activity. Maybe she'd try to get Aleford's Minuteman Café to put a few tables on the sidewalk once the weather got good, although that could be late June some years.

Hope had texted voluminously. The Teatro Verdi was large, could seat 806, a historic nineteenth-century jewel—“lots of red velvet and gold” and there was a matinee on Friday featuring Ravel and Debussy. There was no public concert that night, as the theater would be closed for a private event. The matinee was sold out, but of course Hope had scored a ticket in the first balcony, also the other loges, as well as a box, in case Faith felt the need to move around. She added the address of the British consulate, telling Faith she was just in time, since at the end of the year it would be closing its doors after five hundred years, the victim of budget cuts. Hope obviously felt upset writing this—two exclamation marks. Despite her techie gadgets, she was an old-fashioned girl at heart and hated things like this.

She also gave Faith a contact name and a phone number at the consulate.

It was time to join the others. Once again those free-spirited Nashes had brought their own car, but the rest would be returning to the Rossis' for a leisurely lunch before the lesson in the afternoon. Faith stopped at the one and only news dealer, just missing the last copy of the
Herald,
but since she saw Jack buying it, hoped she could get a look at the paper later.

Gianni had returned from Florence in their absence, left the food, and gone off again. Francesca didn't know when he would be back.

“That man! He never tells me anything and doesn't realize that now that we have the business, it's not like the old days where he could go help a friend build a stone wall or prune the trees and disappear on me for hours.”

While still not wanting to tell Francesca without Gianni what was going on, Faith was getting increasingly anxious to know when he had taken Tom to the bus and whether Tom had said anything to him. Although if he had, Gianni would most certainly not have gone off. Unless it was to the authorities, in Florence, or here. So she got his cell number from Francesca and tried to reach him back in her room, but the phone was either switched off or not getting service. Nothing to do but wait.

The call from her husband's abductors came at 3
P.M.

E
xpecting it would be Hope on her cell, Faith had trouble at first understanding the person on the other end, but it all became horribly clear soon. It was a man speaking in a heavy Italian or similar accent.

“We have your husband. He is fine. Tell no one, especially the police, or we will kill him.”

Very clear.

“I'll get the money! How much do you want?”

“No money. You just wait. Do
nothing
.”

“How do I know he is fine? I want to speak to him!”

She heard the man cover the phone and some muffled sounds. Then Tom came on the line. Her eyes filled with tears of relief.

“Just do whatever they say, Faith. They're hooded, so I'm sure this means they don't plan to harm me. I can't identify anyone.” He spoke slowly and distinctly before quickly adding, “So, I'm okay, although I wish I had my Bible with me. I could use the gospel of Saint Luke for comfort, especially chapter fifteen, verse sixteen. And a pen to write my thoughts down.”

Faith heard a voice say “Enough!” and the call was terminated. She quickly checked, and as she'd expected the number had been blocked. Without going to the police with their sophisticated tracking equipment, there was no way of knowing where Tom was being held or by whom.

Except for the clues in his own words, and the words of the Good Book. Faith quickly texted her sister:
“Could you send me St. Luke, chapter 15, verse 16?”

The reply came back immediately:
“He would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man gave unto him.

“Thought the food was great? Or r u just getting religious?”

Faith wrote:
“Yes and yes. Will explain later.”

Bless Tom's career choice. When she saw him, and she would—any other thought was beyond considering—she'd apologize for all her complaints about parish life. She'd even take on the Sunday school Christmas pageant this year. Just keep him safe, Lord, until she could get him out. Because she now knew where he was and who had snatched him.

Luke, Jean-Luc, the good neighbor with the outrageous
bagno
. And it all was tied to Freddy's pen—and Freddy's murder.

She studied the verse. Tom wasn't telling her he was hungry, although, she thought with a pang, he might be. He was telling her he was being kept in a pigsty, or some other kind of place that housed, or had housed, animals. And it was Tom himself who had told her that Gianni had wanted Jean-Luc to get going with his plans to pull down some old farm buildings far from the main house so the Rossis could rent the cleared space to plant more grapes. Except Jean-Luc was sure there were Etruscan treasures lurking underneath them and wanted a trained team to excavate the site. Etruscan treasures! With his intense interest, Jean-Luc must know about the tomb below the
cantina
in Montepulciano. Easy enough to slip away and lock Faith in. But why let her out? If, in fact, he had been her liberator?

She was due in the kitchen to start tonight's meal soon but thought she'd stretch her legs first. There was something she wanted to check out. Tom never got on the bus to Siena, but Len Russo saw him running up the path behind the house. Unless Len was part of the gang—and at the moment Faith was adopting “Trust No One” as a motto—the path was where Tom had last been seen in the immediate area. She crossed her fingers.

Conspicuously wielding her camera, Faith snapped shots of the pool, the terraces, the gardens, and worked her way up to the hill, stopping to shoot a few of the back of the house and views in every direction. It was hot today and the sun had baked the soil, which would have been wet in the early morning hours after last night's rain. Just as she'd dared hope, Tom's Nikes had left distinctive footprints. He'd been here when the ground was still wet. Yet why had he left the house? Len said he'd been running. Running toward someone—Jean-Luc?—or away from someone—again Jean-Luc? Tempted as she was to follow the tracks, she took a few shots of some instead before strolling with very much assumed nonchalance back down to the house.

She had a plan, but there was nothing she could do now.

Except wait.

F
aith was the last of the group to arrive in Cucina della Rossi's kitchen and quickly put her apron on, ready to start.

“Sorry. That was Tom. He walked to the village for the bus, but said to thank Gianni and that we'd have to wait for our
panforte
. He met a visiting scholar from Saint Louis University's Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies who offered to give him a private look at some manuscripts and stay the night at a guesthouse the Piccolomini Library has. What an opportunity! Kind of a Medici-slept-here thing, like the Lincoln bedroom at the White House!”

Neither ignoring, nor seeking out, Jean-Luc, Faith gave the performance of her life, rehearsed on the hill. Pausing, she could swear she heard someone take a sharp breath in, as if he or she thought Faith was going to say something more, something dangerous? For whom?

She was deliberately vague about time. When she expected him back. Tom's captors had been equally vague—saying nothing in fact—but she was quite sure the Fairchilds wouldn't be having breakfast together tomorrow. Whatever was going to happen at the Teatro Verdi would be later in the day.

“He must be so happy,” Francesca said. “I'm glad for him. If he calls again, tell him we will save some risotto. It is even better the next day.”

“I doubt he'll call again. You know how he is about roaming charges. And yes, risotto is great the next day. I like to make it into cakes and fry them in olive oil. Tom has been known to scoop up risotto straight from the fridge to eat cold.” Faith kept her voice light. “Now, what are we cooking?”

While impossible to keep the fact that her husband was being held captive by hooded kidnappers not all that far away, Faith found that the act of cooking, of preparing food, was having its usual soothing effect on her. Gianni had purchased fresh
branzino,
Mediterranean sea bass. Francesca was describing how they would stuff it with lemons, rosemary, and slivers of leeks and either bake or grill, depending on what the class decided.

“You want to try to get a whole fish with the head and tail if possible and also have it cleaned and slit up the side. It is very easy to tell if fish is fresh.” She pointed to her nose. “This is the best test, but also look at it. Old fish doesn't have bright shiny skin. If you can, also give it a poke with your finger. It shouldn't be spongy.”

The class wanted it grilled, and Faith knew it would be delicious—the skin nice and crunchy.

She began to feel as though she was a sleepwalker, here but not really here, as she listened to and went through all the risotto-making steps, even adding her own favorite professional make-ahead tip—reserve about a cup and a half of the liquid, remove the risotto from the heat when al dente, spread it on a baking sheet or pan, cover, refrigerate for up to two hours, and then reheat it, adding the liquid and whatever else the recipe called for, in tonight's case, the asparagus with grated cheese.

Time marched on at a crawl. The
asparagi
assumed a number of forms, then suddenly the hours fast-forwarded and in succession she was at the table; they were eating; it got dark outside; and now she was standing by the window in her room dressed in a black tee shirt, dark jeans, her hair tucked up into Tom's navy Red Sox cap, waiting.

Then waiting some more.

After dinner, she'd found what she assumed was Jack's newspaper in the lounge and had taken it up with her. There was nothing of note on the front page and inside a page was missing. It seemed to be the one that listed what was going on in various cities—including Florence? Could Jack and Sky be Jean-Luc's coconspirators? Or perhaps the couple was simply planning to do something in Rome before their flight back to the States.

At two o'clock she decided everyone must surely be asleep, and besides, she couldn't stand to wait any longer. All night she had tried to decide whether the feeling she was being watched was paranoia or real. Jean-Luc knew where Tom was, but he didn't know Faith knew. He obviously knew the kidnappers had gotten in touch with her, since he was one of them and he may even have been amused at the story she concocted to explain his absence—whooping it up among illuminated manuscripts in Siena. The story that would reassure him that she was doing nothing. He also didn't know she knew
he
was responsible. She was conscious of not behaving any differently with him, or anyone else, throughout the evening. The effort had been exhausting.

It wasn't raining, but it was overcast, and as she slipped out the back door, Faith was grateful for the lack of illumination. Trying not to think of grass snakes, or especially vipers, she walked parallel to the path in the underbrush instead of on it to avoid being spotted. She had no idea where the old farm buildings might be, but they'd have to be well behind Jean-Luc's house. She remembered coming down the path at what now seemed like years ago, but was only Monday, and not seeing any signs of them when they'd glimpsed the roof of the large villa.