Murphy's Law (22 page)

It was so delicious sitting in the shade on this hot day. Rambler roses climbed trellises halfway up the wall and the hot smell of roses filled her nostrils. Honeybees ambling lazily from blossom to blossom gave off a comforting buzz, contrasting nicely with the little buzz the wine was giving her.

Life was very, very good.

Faith gazed out over the garden. She’d never seen a formal landscaped garden before. In Sophie any plants out in an open space in vases that weren’t padlocked would have been boosted right away.

Below them were two ornamental ponds. Rimming them were huge terracotta vases with intricately chased reliefs around the rim. They were filled with some brightly flowered shrub she couldn’t begin to name.

White gravel paths wound lazily around low hedges surrounding old roses in full blossom. It looked more like a work of art than of nature. It was like some superb movie director’s idea of life, as opposed to the gritty indie director’s version that her life had been up until now.

She could have been here last year, too, sipping white wine in paradise, if it hadn’t been for a man who was now, thankfully, dead.

Tim took a sip of his wine and smacked his lips. “What do you mean?”

“Hmmm?” She turned to him. She’d almost forgotten his presence.

“What do you mean, Roland tried to keep you out of here?”

Faith shook off her sensuous daze and narrowed her eyes as she looked hard at Tim.
Was he faking it?
Grif and Madeleine had been aware of what Kane was doing. That knowledge still burned bright and hot in her breast—that people she’d considered friends could betray her like that.

Had Tim betrayed her, too?

She gazed into her glass and swirled the wine around gently. It flowed back down in golden rivulets. “Legs” she remembered reading that this was called. A sign of a very good wine.

“Leonardo told me that I’d been invited to Siena last year and had been invited this year, too. Professor Gori—I mean, Leo—Leonardo…”

Tim raised an eyebrow as she stumbled over the name.

“Leonardo. That’s what he asked me to call him. Anyway, Leonardo said he’d read my article on tipping behavior in
Mathematica.
You remember it, don’t you, Tim?”

“Yes, sure I do,” he said softly and looked her full in the eyes. It might be a trick of the soft early afternoon light, but his gaze seemed warmer than usual. “That was a really great article, Faith. I think you opened a big avenue of research there. Everyone’s been very impressed by it.”

Yeah. Right. Could’ve fooled me
, Faith thought. “Somehow Kane contained his enthusiasm. Anyway, on the basis of that article, Leonardo wanted me over here last year. But Kane said I was too busy with the move to Southbury. And this year I was invited again, and Kane declined for me again. Only you got sick and he needed someone to do his scut work for him and he decided I could tag along. So I guess I have to thank you for that.”

“For being sick as a dog?” Tim grimaced. “Happy to oblige. Any time.”

“This could’ve been my second year here, Tim. Everybody knows how important the Quantitative Methods Seminar is. That son of a—” She looked away.

“I can’t believe Kane could do something that underhanded.” Tim stopped for a moment. “What am I saying? Of course he’d be capable of doing it. But why? His position is—was—safe enough. You certainly weren’t any threat to him. That was a gratuitous piece of nastiness. Over the top, even for him.”

“Did you know? Did you know he turned the invitation down for me?” The words were blurted out. Faith tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She shouldn’t be putting him on the spot, but she had to. She had a right to know. And after all, they’d been lovers. Sort of. “Because Madeleine and Grif did. And they never let on. Not a word. Not a whisper. I had no idea.”

Tim touched her hand briefly. “I didn’t know, Faith. Honest. But I can’t say that if I had known you’d have been invited, I could’ve changed Roland’s mind or done something about it. You know what he’s like. What he was like.” He closed his eyes. “God, it feels good to talk about him in the past tense.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Tim shifted uneasily. “You know, old Kane really had it in for you, Faith. I could never understand why.”

Slumped in the cane-backed chair, Tim stared down thoughtfully at his wine, twirling the stem of the glass slowly between his palms. A sudden, light breeze from the garden lifted a wispy lock of dirty-blond hair in a rose-scented gust.

He looked back up at her, his expression troubled. “He made your life hell from the moment you arrived. I guess everyone knew what was going on—me included—but there wasn’t much anyone could do about it.”

Faith sighed. “I know. And the police know about it, too. I suppose it’s one of the reasons I’m suspect number one.”

“What?” Tim straightened, galvanized. “What on earth do you mean you’re suspect number one? Are the police here insane? One look at you and it’s clear you couldn’t have murdered anyone.”

As opposed to thinking about it.
Tim was so sweet. “Well, you have to look at it from their point of view. I had a motive. We all had a motive, it’s true, but I had a biggie. I was the one who found the body and my fingerprints are all over the knife. What else can they think?”

“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. Why would you—” He stopped suddenly.

Faith smiled. “Their point precisely. I had good reason to. On the other hand, they’re beginning to realize that just about anyone who crossed Kane’s path had reason to kill him. Still, what they have isn’t enough to arrest me, let alone indict me, so I guess they’re just sitting back for a minute and seeing if maybe my guilty conscience will drive me crazy like Lady Macbeth.”

“I haven’t seen you compulsively scrubbing your hands lately. That’s a good sign.” Tim leaned forward. “So…what was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Finding old Kane dead.” He shivered. “I mean, not to carp at the generosity and humanitarianism of whoever did the deed, but still…to find a dead body like that. What was it like? What did he look like? Was there a struggle?”

Kane’s lifeless body flashed in front of her eyes. “No, I don’t think so. He was just lying there on the floor, flat on his back. Actually, at first I didn’t even realize he was dead. I thought he’d simply passed out on the floor the night before and hadn’t woken up out of his stupor yet. He’d consumed an amazing amount of alcohol. He drank his way across the Atlantic, drank his way from Rome to Florence, drank his way from Florence to Siena, and drank his way through dinner. Then he ordered another bottle of whiskey from his room before going to bed.”

“Jesus.” Tim shook his head. “That’s a lot of booze.”

“Wait…that’s funny.” Faith frowned. “Come to think of it, why did he need another bottle of whiskey? He’d brought four into the country. Not even Kane could drink four bottles of whiskey in one day and live.”

“Maybe it was a gift from the Certosa. Sort of like a welcome gift.”

“Of whiskey? To an alcoholic?”

“Maybe Leonardo didn’t know he was an alcoholic.”

“Maybe,” Faith said. She doubted it, though. Leonardo struck her as a very savvy man. Still, if she hadn’t realized the extent of Kane’s problem, it was likely Leonardo hadn’t either. The echo of a voice sounded in her head and she realized Tim had asked a question.

“What?”

“I said, what made you think he’d ordered the whiskey?”

“Oh. Well, the evening before, I saw a maid deliver a bottle of whiskey to Kane’s room. If it was a gift from the Certosa, surely they would’ve put it in his room. So he must’ve ordered it. But that doesn’t make much sense, either. He had a stock of whiskey bottles, so why—” Faith’s voice trailed off as she thought it through. No matter how many ways she look at it, it didn’t make much sense. She was a trained mathematician and she hated it when things didn’t compute.

The head waiter appeared and clapped his hands twice, sharply. “
A tavola
!” he called.

Faith and Tim both jumped.

Tim’s head swiveled around. “Good. Lunch is ready,” he said. “You’re in for a real treat, Faith. The cook here is fantastic.”

Faith smiled. Tim loved his food. “I know. You forget I’ve already had a couple of meals here.” They walked over to the tables. Tim linked arms with her and she leaned companionably into him. Good old Tim. He was a lousy lover, but maybe not such a bad friend.

“You know, Faith,” he said as the waiters pulled out their chairs for them, “the police haven’t realized another motive of yours. Keeping you away from this food is reason enough to off anyone.”

She laughed, suddenly glad she was alive and Kane was dead. “Just make sure you don’t tell the Commissario that.”

Chapter Thirteen

If you’re feeling good, don’t worry—you’ll get over it.

Back in Siena, Dante mopped up the last of the wine sauce with a crust of bread. “Attilio should be beatified,” he said as he put the bread in his mouth. His eyes closed reverently. Some things were almost too good to be of this earth.

Nick picked up another fried artichoke and popped it into his mouth. “Hmm. Almost makes you think there’s something to religion.”

“Well, let’s not go overboard.” Dante poured a generous dollop of
Brunello di Montalcino
into Nick’s glass. It was the best wine in all the world and guaranteed to pull a dead man out of the doldrums. “Though I must say, if I
did
have to choose a religion, it would definitely have to be Catholicism, for aesthetic reasons. What other religion lets you celebrate with wine? Speaking of religion, did I ever tell you about the Buddhist colony here?”

“Nope.” Nick settled back to listen. His expression was serious and Dante very much wanted to put a smile on his face.

“Well, there’s this Buddhist colony near Bagnolo,” Dante began. “It was founded about eight years ago. Probably about fifty people. They keep pretty much to themselves. Dress in saffron robes, are close to the land and lead very simple lives. The usual. Which would be very inspiring to all us materialistic clods, if the whole thing weren’t paid for by the half-a-billion euro trust fund of their founder, who also happens to be the Conte di Salvemini.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that the guy whose mom ran away with the—”

“The same. Which probably explains the Buddhism. Anyway, we’re called out to
La Rondinaia
, the family villa, because they were having a few break-ins at night. So we go and check things out. Turns out it was a disgruntled member of the sect—some drab, pale, young man who wanted to take over and rule the other drab pale youngsters. But while we were checking things out, we learned a few things about how they live, including hygiene.” Dante shuddered at the memory. “And—do you know that they
import
their food?”

“Import?” Nick’s eyes opened wide. “Whatever for?”

Dante shrugged. “The local produce isn’t spiritual enough for them? I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s crazy.”

“You better believe it. Here they are, in the midst of the greatest bounty on earth, and they import their lentils from Mumbai. I mean, really.”

Nick shook his head, but Dante could tell he wasn’t really listening. He was toying with his glass, lost in thought.

Dante looked away, allowing Nick a moment’s privacy. He knew what Nick was thinking about.

He could read Nick easily. Though they had been separated by an ocean, in essence they’d grown up together. They’d spent all their summers together, either here in Siena or in Southbury. Dante felt closer to Nick than he did to Mike, who was ten years older and had been married forever.

The Rossis had always given Nick a hard time about being a jock, but the truth was they were all proud of him. Nick was a natural-born athlete, had been all his life. Watching him hobble around was like watching a cat with a broken leg. Heart-wrenching. Though it was the concussion that had done Nick in.

Yesterday, Dante had looked up secondary concussion in the
Merck Manual
in the Questura’s reference library and had winced at reading about “near-complete damage to forebrain functions” and “chronic vegetative state”.

Nick was never playing again. Dante would tie him to a post first.

Nick’s athletic career was over and, in all the ways that counted to him, Nick had lost his life. Unusual for a Rossi, Nick had never been that good in school. He’d made it through college only because of Lou’s coaching. And Nick had never shown even the remotest interest in anything other than hockey.

He was a young man. In spite of his injuries, he was as healthy as a horse. Like all the Rossis, he’d live forever.

But as what?

“Listen.” Dante leaned forward, ready to give Nick the little Rossi pep talk, the one about how no matter what he was, what he did, no matter what was happening in his life, his family loved him—when his cell phone rang.
Damn!
Just as he was getting started.

He listened carefully, then said he’d be back to the office right away. Snapping the mouthpiece closed, Dante signaled Attilio for the bill, ready for a fight.

Attilio’s son Cecco had gotten mixed up with a bad crowd the summer before last. He’d been doing soft drugs and was barreling straight toward the hard stuff—and hard time—when Dante straightened him out. Completely off the record. Dante had come down hard on the boy, but now Cecco was studying economics at the university and helping his dad out in the restaurant in the evenings and weekends.

Attilio refused to accept payment for Dante’s meals, which was annoying because the food was so good. Dante was forced to limit the number of times he came to Attilio’s restaurant.

After he and Attilio had gone through their usual tussle, and Attilio had won, as usual, Dante hooked arms with Nick and they walked out into the
Via Fosso
. It was a ten-minute walk along the
Banchi di Sopra
to the Questura, but he veered left, taking the
Chiasso Largo
down to the
piazza
.

There was something there sure to lift Nick’s spirits.