Pasta Imperfect (21 page)

I spotted other members of the tour in my travels. Philip and Marla looked to be having a heart-to-heart over glasses of wine at an outdoor café. I saw Keely peeking into the storefront window of a hair salon and checking her watch before heading through the door. I guess I wouldn’t have to worry about what she was doing for the rest of the afternoon. I noticed Sylvia Root and Gillian buying fruit from an outdoor vendor and wondered if Gillian’s was for eating or chucking at Marla.

I saw several blondes wearing Landmark Destination name tags and stopped to exchange friendly chitchat with them, but not once during the entire morning or afternoon did I catch sight of Nana, or George, or the twins, or any of my Windsor City group. Odd that I wouldn’t run into at least one of them. Oh, geesch. Could they have gone back to wait for the bus?

I shook my head. More than likely that’s where they were. They were skipping the historic self-guided tour of Pisa in favor of being on time for the bus. I rolled my eyes. I had to hand it to them. At least they were consistent.

By 3:30 I was hot, tired, and with all the gelato I’d consumed, really thirsty, so I stopped at a restaurant with outdoor seating and a partial view of the Leaning Tower and ordered a tall glass of lemonade. My table was covered in white linen with a pottery bowl full of oranges and lemons as a centerpiece rather than your standard bottle of Chianti with a candle stuck in the neck. I inched off my one-band slides and flexed my toes while I waited for my order, disappointed that neither Brandy Ann nor Amanda had done anything criminal all day long, which made me wonder if the only time they reverted to criminal behavior was when there was a flight of stairs handy. I leaned in my chair to regard the sliver of tower visible in the distance and wondered how many stairs one had to climb to reach the top. A frosty sensation razored down my spine. Good thing it was closed to the public until next year.

My lemonade arrived in an exquisitely tooled highball glass with a slice of lemon gracing the rim. I chugged a mouthful before setting it back on the table with a frown. Nice glass. Warm liquid. No ice. Yup. The Italians really knew how to quench your thirst.

I scratched the soles of my feet with my bare toes, wondering what would happen if Jackie came up short with Fred. We couldn’t keep following everyone around. At some point people would notice, especially if Jackie got increasingly more creative with her disguises.

There were just too many questionable motives floating around among the Passion and Pasta crew for everyone to be as innocent as they’d led me to believe. Money. Fame. Ego. Validation. But I couldn’t figure out the logistics. Brandy Ann had both the opportunity and brawn to push Cassandra down the hotel stairs, but how could she have been involved with Jeannette’s death if she wasn’t on the gallery when the woman fell?

Amanda had opportunity to push Cassandra, too, but the same problem existed. She couldn’t be responsible for Jeannette’s death if she’d left the gallery before Jeannette fell.

Unless, of course, the videotapes proved otherwise.

I took a long draft of my iceless lemonade. Then there was Keely, who knew the caliber of Cassandra’s writing, who was probably miffed that Cassandra had ended her
Romance Solutions
subscription, who might have been jealous of Jeannette’s awards and threatened by her talent, and who wanted to be published more than she wanted to live. But Keely supposedly left the gallery before Jeannette plunged to her death, too. Or had she?

I shot up straight in my chair.
Uff da!
Had Fred seen Keely do something unspeakable on the gallery? Or Brandy Ann? Or Amanda? Or…or Gabriel? Is that why he was acting even more squirrelly than normal today? Why he seemed so frightened to be alone? Was he afraid Jeannette’s killer might try to shut him up?

But if that was the case, then what was the deal with his anxiety about the videotapes? If they actually showed someone pushing Jeannette off the gallery, then —

A sudden, unlikely thought struck me. Oh, my God. What if the videotapes showed Fred pushing Jeannette? But that was absurd! Fred wouldn’t hurt a fly. Physically, he seemed too small to muscle someone over the railing. Mentally, he seemed too timid. Then there was the question of motive, but I wouldn’t be given any insight into that until Etienne got back to me.
Why
was this getting so complicated? I took another swig of my lemonade to help myself think.

“Is this seat taken?”

Startled, I glanced up to find Duncan standing beside my table, appearing the polar opposite of me — fresh, crisp, and every bit as commanding as he’d been in the showdown at the baptistry. “Oh, hi! Sure.” I indicated the chair kitty-corner to me. “It has your name on it. But if you’re thirsty, I don’t recommend the lemonade, unless you have a thing for lukewarm beverages.”

He sat down, a broad smile dimpling his cheeks as he waved his hand toward my glass. “Italy has it all. Lavish cathedrals. Garish fountains. Leviathan sculptures. Gorgeous women. The only thing it lacks is…ice.” A soft, kindling light brightened the dark brown of his eyes. “And speaking of gorgeous women, I didn’t want you to think I hadn’t noticed.”

He lifted his very large, very bronzed hand to my head and gave my short curls a gentle tousle. “Donatella did well by you. I think you look” — his eyes trailed lazily from my hair to my mouth — “spectacular.”

OH, GOD! This couldn’t be sexual attraction I was feeling.
Please
tell me it wasn’t sexual attraction! I couldn’t be attracted to Duncan. I was already taken!

“I’m glad you like it.” I gulped down the rest of my lemonade in one long swallow.

“I like it very much,” he said in a voice that would have melted ice if there’d been any around. “I’m curious, Emily.” He lifted my left hand and brushed his thumb across my bare ring finger. “No wedding ring? How does a knockout like you avoid the inevitable trip to the altar?”

“I was married once,” I confessed, “but it didn’t work out.”

“You married the wrong man.”

“Um, you could say that.”

“What about now? Are you seeing anyone?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “A Swiss police inspector. He lives in Lucerne, but he’s on leave of absence at the moment.” I tapped my fingertips to my head. “Migraines. He was injured last month, so he’s…recuperating.”

“A serious injury?”

“Head wound.”

“Obviously not in the line of duty though.”

“He was on holiday.” I eyed him curiously. “How did you know that?”

“It’s hard to be felled by a criminal element where no criminal element exists. Didn’t your inspector tell you? There’s no crime in Switzerland.”

“That’s not true! There was a crime when
I
was there.” Unfortunately, we’d brought the criminal over with us, but why split hairs?

He smiled at me with his glaringly white teeth. “Do you see each other often?”

“Not often enough. Long-distance relationships are a problem that way.”

“You could try applying for a job at Landmark. I happen to know there’s a position opening up in Milan. Six-month minimum stay in the country. Competitive salary. Trains run frequently between Milan and Lucerne. You’d see your inspector more often, and if things didn’t work out with him” — with the lightest touch of his fingertip, he sketched a pattern on the back of my hand — “I’ll be moving to Milan in a few weeks, so I could offer you my services at…filling the void.”

I could feel my mouth work, but nothing was coming out. He wanted to fill the void? He’d spoken to me a handful of times, and he wanted to fill the void? Had something happened between the two of us in the last couple of days that I’d completely missed?

Duncan’s lips curved into a boyish grin. “I wouldn’t mind meeting your inspector, Emily.” He threw the words out like a challenge before leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Is he planning a visit while you’re in the country? I always like to size up the competition.”

“Competition? What are you competing for?”

“I thought that was obvious.” He drilled me with a look that sizzled like a lightning strike. “You.”

“ME? I’m not part of any competition. I’m taken!”

“No ring on your finger yet. You’re not off-limits until it’s official.”

“Yes, I am!”

“No, you’re not. I’m not usually this forward, but what can I say? You’re beautiful. Friendly. You’re always smiling. You don’t smoke. Do you know how refreshing it is to see a woman who doesn’t smoke over here? Old people love you. You have a good heart. My family would think you’re wonderful.” He lowered his eyes. “You have great legs.”

“My legs are taken.”

“I should probably warn you. The men in my family make up their minds rather quickly about the women they intend to marry. My mother and father dated exactly two days before he popped the question, and they were married in a week. My grandfather was even faster. He carted my gramma off to the preacher on their first date. Lazarus men know their minds when it comes to women.”

I stared at him openmouthed for nearly ten seconds before I uttered the only thing I could possibly say at a time like this. “Have you run into any of my people today? The guy with the prosthetic leg who’s walking like a slug? The woman with Magic Marker for eyebrows? I haven’t seen any of them since we left the baptistry and frankly, I’m a little worried.”

His gaze was unwavering. “Is that how Midwesterners politely change the subject?”

I perked up. “Speaking of changing the subject, do you happen to know what the phrase
voray mange calzione
means?”

“Excuse me?”

I braced my forearm on the table and regarded him gravely. “Do you think there’s a chance it doesn’t mean ‘eat my socks’? Could it possibly be an idiom?”

“Say it again. Slowly.”

So I did, and when I finished, I watched his mouth become a provocative curve. “If I fill in the blanks and use a little literary license, I come up with, ‘I want to eat you for breakfast.’ ” His eyes grew warm, sooty. “I love the idea. Are you free tomorrow morning?”

“Thief! Stop! He has my pocketbook! Stop him!”

A sudden blur on the periphery of my vision became a young man pelting down the street with a purple shoulder bag stashed under his arm. Marla Michaels stood alone on the pavement, screaming and pointing at the retreating thief. “Somebody stop him! That pocketbook’s brand-new! There’s only one other like it in the world!”

“Oh, my God!” I leaped out of my chair. “A purse snatcher!” I eyed the barrier of potted plants around the restaurant. I eyed the disappearing thief. I eyed my one-band slides with the three-inch wedge heels. There was only one thing to do.

I turned to Duncan. “Should someone run after him?”

“No need,” he said, rising calmly to his feet. Keeping a bead on the thief, he plucked an orange from the fruit bowl, took calculated aim, and hurled the thing through the air at twice the speed of sound. Or light. Whichever was faster.

The orange hit dead on. CLONK! Right in the back of the head. The thief’s neck snapped forward. His legs buckled. He tripped on the pavement and skidded onto his stomach in a tangle of arms and legs. Marla’s shoulder bag sluiced from beneath his arm into the path of a nun who scooped it off the street and held it protectively while the thief picked himself off the ground and hightailed it toward the tower.

I regarded Duncan in awe. “How did you do that?”

He gave a modest shrug. “I played a little football in high school. That’s when we were stationed in D.C.”

“Quarterback?”

“Only for two years.”

With an arm like that, he should be playing in the NFL. I wondered why he wasn’t. “Did you play in college, too?”

“Unfortunately, the place I attended didn’t have a football team.”

What a waste. His father had probably been assigned to some tiny African nation, and he’d been forced to spend his college years in some vocational-technical school in the jungle. Imagine. He could be earning millions now, if only he’d attended the right school. My heart went out to him as I peered up at his handsome face. “Do you mind my asking? Where exactly did you attend college?”

“It was a university actually,” he said matter-of-factly. “Oxford.”

When I arrived at the bus pickup point at 3:50, I was happy to find the Windsor City gang all present and accounted for, exchanging lively conversation amongst themselves and shooting last-minute photos of the African street vendors who were hawking everything from pocketbooks, to carved animals, to umbrellas. Nana hurried up to me, tugging George behind her.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emily. I was gettin’ awful worried you might miss the bus.”

I gave them a stern look. “I thought it was really odd I didn’t run into any of you guys in town this afternoon. Please tell me you haven’t been standing here all day waiting for the bus.”

George grinned like a jack - o’ - lantern. “We all
th
ayed together and had a real ec
th
yting afternoon.”

I wiped spittle from my face.

“
Th
orry,” he apologized.

Nana handed me a tissue. “It’s been like this all afternoon, dear. We’re all soaked.”

I held the tissue at the ready. “You all stuck together?” That was a first. “What did you do?”

“We was countin’ them holes in the cathedral,” said Nana. “You know. The ones the day-vil keeps changin’.”

I stared at her, nonplussed. “You spent the afternoon…counting holes?”

“They’re really not holes. They’re more like dots, with attitude.”

“I came up with a hundred and
th
venty,” George hissed proudly.

Nana nodded. “Then Dick Stolee counted and he come up with a hundred and sixty-eight. Then Lucille counted and got a hundred sixty-four.” She lowered her voice a decibel. “We didn’t take Lucille’s tally too seriously seein’s how she’s scheduled for cataract surgery when we get back. That day-vil, Emily, we kept ’im real busy today.”

Euw boy. “After all that work, did you ever come up with a final number?”

“You bet.” Nana smiled. “Osmond kept track a each tally. Alice called out the numbers. Dick Stolee done the videotapin’. We all took our turn countin’, and the final estimate was —”