Death of an Obnoxious Tourist (29 page)

Elaine was so relieved to be able to talk honestly for the first time in a week, she gabbed on and on the entire ride. I shut her out after a few minutes so I could enjoy the trip. The gist of Elaine’s tirade was that Dick was her soul mate, but she wanted him to be sure he knew what he was doing before he left his wife, and he probably needed a few days to think, and so on.

At some point, when I wasn’t listening, her monologue morphed into the subject of Beth.

“So, as horrible as all of this is,” she said, “I’m glad Beth will be well-off financially. With lots of money, she can give the finger to any man who doesn’t treat her right. I mean, I don’t want to sound like money is all that important, but not having money is what has made Beth so vulnerable. She put up with trash from that husband of hers, and she put up with trash from Meg too, according to Amy. But she’s going to be filthy rich now, from what I’ve heard.”

Lettie careened down the aisle of the bus, toward me. Bouncing off people left and right, she said “Excuse me” to each and every one she jostled. “Stand up, Dotsy. I’ve got something to say, and I have to whisper. Excuse us, Elaine, don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, grabbing the handgrip on the seat back and hauling myself up.

Lettie pressed her mouth against my ear. “Achille has asked Beth to marry him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And Beth said yes.” Lettie started a little happy dance in the aisle, but it was cut short by Achille slamming on his brakes. I do believe Lettie would be ecstatic if her own daughter told her she was engaged to a cobra. “But we can’t say anything about it yet,” she added, grabbing a seat back with both hands.

Tessa flipped on the microphone. “We’ll have a bit of a walk from the bus to the festival. This little town, like most medieval towns in the region, was not built for motor traffic. The streets are much too narrow for a bus, so Achille will drop us off in a car park near here, and you can follow me to the center of town, where we will meet Cesare and he will explain the festival to you.”

We stepped off and gathered into a ball so Tessa could herd us downtown. I expected a collie to snip at my heels any time. Beth, I noticed, had lagged behind with Achille while he locked up the bus. The air here was so clean. Without realizing it, I’d grown used to the oppressive, stagnant and exhaust-fume-laden air of Florence.

Tessa stopped us at the edge of the car park. “It’s ten minutes to six right now. Let’s synchronize our watches. In case you wander off, and i this town that’s a safe enough thing to do, make note of where we are now and be back here no later than eight-fifteen.”

Achille called to her from the door of the bus. “
Che ore
?”

“
Alle otto e un quarto
,”she yelled back.

“
No. Adesso.
”

“
Sono le sei meno dieci
.”

Amazingly, I understood that exchange—sort of.
Otto e un quarto
would mean “eight and a quarter” whereas
sei meno dieci
must be six minus ten, or ten to six. Or, to Crystal and her generation, five-fifty. What a lot of ways there were to say the same thing.

The marbles in my head made a sudden seismic shift. The puzzle—that fabrication of the mind I had worried over while sitting in front of the Etruscan
Chimera
. Suddenly, I thought I could see a way to change one little lie, maybe more than one, and it would all fall into place. It reminded me of my cordless drill at home. The drill had a carrying case that was form-fitted on the inside to hold the drill, the charger and the bits. If you tucked the drill in wrong, the top wouldn’t close. There was only
one way
to do it and shut the lid.

While pondering, I had lagged behind. I hoped Lettie wouldn’t ask me what I was thinking, because I’d have to say, “Cordless drills.”

The town was lovely. Victoria said it wasn’t any prettier than San Gimignano, which she had visited earlier in the day, but this was my first Tuscan hill town and I was entranced. The narrow streets were paved with flagstones, set in a herringbone pattern. Ancient stucco buildings were on both sides. As we traipsed along, we passed a produce market with a sign that said ALIMENTARI and I steeled myself for Lettie to add, “my dear Watson,” which she did.

Tessa led us around a corner, up a hill, and under a series of stone archways, which opened out into a broad plaza with a huge fountain in the middle. Water poured from the mouths of various wild animals and into a stone trough, worn down at intervals along its edge by centuries of peoples’ arms and animals’ necks. Around the perimeter of the plaza, stalls were set up with brightly-colored banners, sweets, sausages, trinkets, pottery, you-name-it, for sale.

“They’re trying to keep the center cleared out!” Tessa shouted over the din of revelers. “The parade will come through here and around the fountain.”

“Lettie, look.” I elbowed her.

“What?”

A young man in a dark green shirt and jeans browsed a table of lace tablecloths and napkins. I would have missed him but for the aviator sunglasses. “That’s Gianni,” I said.

“What’s he doing here?”

“I can’t think of a single good reason. He’s not from here, is he? He’s not here to be with his old buddy Cesare or his old buddy Tessa, because we’ve already established that he only met them last week. He’s not here to meet Amy, because she’s dead. So why?”

“Maybe he’s looking for some nice lace for his mother?”

We watched him until Tessa waved us through a pair of giant wooden doors on one side of the plaza. Gianni ambled on past a gelato stand and slipped around a corner.

Lettie and I found ourselves in a large room with exposed wood beams and stone walls. There were several doors and a couple of halls leading off in various directions. One of them led to what was obviously a kitchen, with clinks and rattles indicating that food preparation was in progress. Cesare, gorgeous in designer slacks and a pinstriped shirt, welcomed us with his arms spread wide.

“I’m so very glad you have all come.” He smacked his hands together. “This is the place, the room where we hold our town meetings. The other council members have been kind enough to let me have a few of my friends here today. While you are here, please have some wine, enjoy our delicious food. Everything has been prepared from what we ourselves have grown, and if you want something to drink that you do not see, ask one of the waiters. They can service you.”

“Accommodate you,” Tessa muttered over his shoulder, and there were some titters.

Unfazed, Cesare said, “This building was built in the sixteenth century and has been changed into many hands. It has been a palace, a fortification, a market, and now, a meeting place. Unlike Americans, we do not tear a thing down when it gets a few cracks in the wall.”

“He’s right,” I said. “We do tear things down as soon as they start to show their age.”

I checked my blood sugar and grabbed a glass of Chianti. We were not Cesare’s only guests by a long shot. I estimated there were about two hundred people, all drinking Cesare’s wine and eating his food. Some were in work clothes, some in suits. It looked like a political fundraiser in Little Italy back home, only no one asked for money.

Jim Kelly sidled up behind me and said, “How does the son of an olive farmer, with no known job other than ‘he helps his father,’ afford a ‘do’ like this?”

“A little graft and corruption on the side,” I guessed.

Before long, ruffles and drumbeats echoed into the square from somewhere beyond the arches, and we all drifted outside, drinks in hand, lining the north side of the plaza.

The marchers were in medieval costume. Each family paraded its banner and crest. Men in tunics, velvet chaperons, and multicolored leggings—some on decked-out horses, some on foot—marched to the drumbeat. Fascinated children had to be dragged out of their path. I let my eyes scan the crowd around the plaza and spotted a few men who didn’t fit. Plain-clothes police, I’d bet, or hired security men. They stuck out because they were alone, and they weren’t watching the parade. They were scanning the crowd, and I felt pretty sure they weren’t here for the homemade sausage.

Lettie nudged me. “Dotsy, guess who? Look!” She pointed toward the opposite side of the plaza. “Just to the right of the lion on that fountain.”

Marco Quattrocchi! What was he doing here? Keeping Beth under surveillance? Checking out our party? I wondered if all four of the men I had spotted were his. I edged my way around, slipping behind spectators wherever I could. When people were backed up against a wall, and I had to walk in front of them, I endured the dirty looks. Marco jumped when I came up beside him and touched his arm.

“Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction?” I asked.

“I am on vacation. Is there any law against that?”

“Looks like you’ve brought some of your men with you.”

“They are on vacation, too. But when we go back home I may have to give them some more training in how to not look like carabinieri.”

“Are you watching Gianni Diletti?”

“What? He’s here?” Marco’s whole body turned rigid. “Where?”

“He was over by the lace napkins a little while ago.”

“You must help me, Dotsy. You forget; I have never seen Gianni Diletti. I have only seen an old driver’s license photo.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Marco’s men were looking for Gianni, but Marco hadn’t met him. After thoroughly searching the faces around the plaza, I led Marco down a side street with more vendor stalls. The street itself was so narrow, the stalls lined one side only, with barely enough room for browsers to walk by, in single file, on the other side. The smells of baking bread and sautéed onions filled the narrow passage. Thankfully, I spotted Gianni’s green shirt when we were still fifteen yards or so behind him.

“There he is,” I told Marco. “The guy in the green shirt.”

Alone, I fought my way back to Cesare’s party and told Lettie what had transpired. The parade passed on, but our party walked back inside the meeting hall. I made several trips to the long row of food tables that extended across one end of the room, and poured another glass of wine. I joined Tessa and Cesare in the middle of the room. They were explaining to the Kellys and the Reese-Burtons how to find the best local olive oils. Elaine King followed me, standing somewhat uncomfortably outside the circle. She seemed so terribly alone. Cesare noticed that Tessa had no wine and left to fetch her a glass. He disappeared into the room I had already decided was a kitchen.

“Most of the families here have their own olive presses,” Tessa said. “And people like me, who live in Florence, come out here to buy our oil, usually from someone we know.”

Cesare returned with two fresh glasses of dark red wine. I wondered if he and Tessa were drinking the same wine they served their guests, or if they dipped into a private stock. Actually, my Chianti was quite nice. I couldn’t wish for better.

Paul Vogel, sweating, slipped upside me and shoved a piece of paper into my hand. “I called the hotel . . . and asked them to read my messages,” he panted. “This is from the guys back home. Remember, you promised. Background only. No quotes.”

I read the note quickly; it was short but succinct. I wanted to compress it with my hand. Instead, I slid it into my pocket. As I did, I remembered the piece of paper in Amy’s pocket. Poor Amy.

“If you never visited the Bauers,” I said, as soon as there was a pause in the olive oil lecture, “you wouldn’t realize Meg, the sister of Amy Perez, and Nurse Margaret Bauer were the same person, until you saw the name on the tour group list. Would you, Tessa?”

She turned toward me, sipping her wine as she did so. Suddenly, she gasped. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth curved down in a horrible grimace. I started forward, but collided with Wilma Kelly as Tessa dropped to the floor. Her glass hit the stone floor and shattered, sloshing wine across Wilma’s legs.

Cesare let fly a long string of orders in Italian. He knelt beside Tessa and waved everyone else back.

“Find a doctor!” I called out, probably repeating what Cesare had said. “It’s too hot for her in here. Is there a room where we can put her until a doctor arrives?”

Shirley Hostetter dashed through an open door at one end of the room. “There’s a sort-of bed in here. The room looks like an office or something, but there’s a big window. We could get a breeze.”

Cesare picked Tessa up and dashed across the room with her. He pushed Shirley aside and disappeared into the little room.

I heard Jim Kelly say, “Don’t touch the wine glass. Don’t mop up the wine. It may need to be tested,” as I followed Cesare and Tessa through the door.

Carefully, Cesare placed Tessa on an upholstered chaise longue while I hefted a huge window as far up as it would go. Tessa didn’t appear to be breathing and her face was bright red. Cesare slapped her hand and moaned incoherently, great tears flooding his face.

“Shirley, take her pulse,” I said.

Shirley lifted the hand Cesare did not have and looked at her watch. After a few seconds, she gave me a very puzzled look and said, “There’s bound to be a doctor around here somewhere. What’s keeping those guys? Cesare, you know everyone in town. Find a doctor! Now!”

She virtually led him out the door.

I said, “I’ll stay with Tessa,” but I’m sure they didn’t hear me. I didn’t shut the door the whole way because we needed the cross draft, but I wanted to keep the crowd out. I pulled up a chair near Tessa’s inert form and talked to her softly.

“Your brother was horribly brain damaged at birth because of Meg Bauer’s carelessness, wasn’t he? I can certainly understand why, over the years, watching your mother grow old caring for him, yu would have built up a seething hatred of Nurse Bauer. I’d bet that name was never spoken in your home without a curse to go with it.

“I had already considered that it could have been Meg who gave your mother the syntometrine while she was still in labor. The doctor at the hospital this morning told me it is only given
after
birth, to make the uterus contract. Given during labor it would crush the baby’s skull, I think.”