The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 9





Of course she would soon be missed.

And then what? She tried to keep from panicking as she envisioned the search. They might imagine she had left the cantina and gone back to the pottery shop or for another cup of coffee. Failing to locate her at either of those places, the hunt would fan out all over Montepulciano and beyond. She tried to concentrate on taking deep breaths. There was plenty of air. The door had blown shut. Hadn’t it?

But she was far underground. There weren’t any ventilation shafts here. No wind either that could have moved the heavy door. So how did it close?

Faith had come full circle. Many years ago when Ben was an infant the two of them had been locked in a basement preserves closet by a deranged murderess. There had been little air there either. And no way out. All Aleford searched for them, and it had been the redoubtable Millicent Revere McKinley who had saved them, forever putting Faith uncomfortably in the woman’s debt. Yet what she wouldn’t give to see that interfering, overbearing pillar of several historical societies and the DAR come through the door now! The Revere family started out as Rivoires, French Huguenots. No Italian connection, and given Millicent’s lifelong membership in the Cold Water Army it was extremely improbable that she would be anywhere near a wine cellar, whatever the country.

Her mind was wandering. She needed to focus. That other time she recalled going through the diaper bag she was carrying in search of anything that might save their lives. There had been diapers and all the accoutrements babies need and some other necessities for herself—lip gloss, blush, folding hairbrush, sandwich . . . Why was she reminiscing when she could be looking at what she had in the bag she was carrying now?

Nothing to eat—and because of that she was suddenly starving; a half-filled bottle of water—that was good, and she took a tiny sip; room key; updated version of old hairbrush; lip gloss again—when they found her body at least she’d look presentable; some euros; her American Express card—the slogan “Don’t leave home without it” was extremely irritating at the moment; a tiny flashlight—Tom kept buying them for her, bless him; a pen; her journal—she could record the experience for posterity; antacid tablets; Tylenol; the camera—when the flashlight gave out she could use the flash for what exactly she wasn’t sure, but it would be light anyway; Kleenex—she could blot her tears; a few neon-colored gelati spoons she thought the kids would like; and of course her trusty Swiss Army knife. She switched on the flashlight and opened the knife. The ancient door couldn’t be a tight fit. She might be able to pry it open.

No such luck; the door wasn’t a tight fit. Light was seeping in around the edges. But it was shut tight because it had been locked. From the outside. She could see the bolt. The door was not going to budge.

She sat down with her back against it.

She stood up and pounded on it.

“Help! Someone, help!”

What was it in Italian? French was au secours, but the Italian wasn’t anything like that. Damn! She couldn’t remember.

“Help!” She screamed louder and banged harder.

After several minutes, she sat back down on the cold dirt. It was hopeless.

The caves were carved from tufa, the limestone the town perched on. Even if she had something more sturdy than the plastic ice cream spoons, something like a backhoe, all she would be doing was digging deeper into the mountain. The grottoes were connected by a series of tunnels, but this one was obviously at the end of one or some sort of way station. The only thing she could do was wait. She turned on the flashlight and looked at her watch. The group would be gathering back at the van in twenty minutes.

She would never make it.

What she had to do was to establish a routine. Like prisoners or people stranded on a desert island. Sip water, stand up, stretch, bang wildly on door, and scream. Sit back down, lean against door.

“Bye, bye, Miss American Pie”—she couldn’t get the song out of her head and found she was pounding in time to it.

Would Tom remarry? Of course he would. He was still young. Well, youngish. But she didn’t want it to be anybody she knew. Anybody from Aleford particularly. And the kids couldn’t call her “Mom.” If she did get out of here alive, she would have to tell him this. He’d ventured once—marrying a native from the Big Apple, no McIntoshes please with all the flavor bred out these days—and he should do it again. Hope would find someone. She’d network. Hope! The hell with the roaming charges. She needed to call her sister. Now. Except the phone was back at the Rossis’ and wouldn’t work here anyway. The Rossis! Gianni had mentioned these grottoes. They would surely steer the searchers to the caves. Wouldn’t they?

Maybe they’d think she’d been kidnapped. That happened in foreign places. Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much, only that was Morocco. Not all that far away though. Well, as Doris Day sang in the movie, “Que Sera, Sera.”

She was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. She took a deep breath. Although, maybe that wasn’t a good idea, shallow breaths so she wouldn’t use up what oxygen there was? At least it was cool. Cold, in fact. Like the place it was. Now she couldn’t get the “We Three Kings” Christmas carol of her head—the verse ending “Sealed in the stone cold tomb.” She’d be very happy for a little frankincense to send up some smoke signals right now and hoped she’d be following stars in the sky again, shooting stars, “Star Light, Star Bright.” Focus, focus, Faith! For a brief moment she was back in Aleford at the kitchen table helping Ben with his homework. Stay on task!

She got up, repeated the routine, and sat back down, leaning heavily against the door. It was the only solid thing around and oddly comforting. She felt herself falling backward and for an insane moment felt annoyed, which immediately changed to a feeling of extreme elation.

She was free!

She crawled out and stood upright on the stairs.

Notebooks with words that vanish. Locked doors that open themselves. Again, was she going mad? Had she simply imagined it was locked when she couldn’t open it?

No. It had been secured. It was an old-fashioned mortise lock, and the bolt had been shot. Someone had turned the bolt to shut the door and someone—the same person?—had turned it to open it.

However compelling it was to find out, the point now was to get aboveground.

She went back down the stairs. At the bottom she heard footsteps coming from the corridor to the left and ran after them. As she increased her speed whoever was in front of her did also. Was it her rescuer? Someone who didn’t want to be identified? Faith concentrated on keeping up and soon she was back in the tasting room—empty now. She easily found the way up to the piazza level, then took off down the treacherously steep street she’d climbed with Tom only a few hours earlier. Her heel caught on a cobblestone. For a moment she thought she was going to roll the whole stretch like one of those botti they raced with, but she regained her balance and took both shoes off, running the rest of the way barefoot. She headed straight toward the Porta al Prato and the parking lot where the van was parked. Tom, and the Rossis, must be going crazy with worry.

They weren’t. In fact, the van was pulling out and Faith could see her husband sitting by the window, laughing.

She jumped in front of it waving frantically as Gianni stopped before pulling onto the main road. He looked completely surprised to see her. Francesca came out the front passenger door.

“Faith! But you were going back with the Nashes, who are staying longer. We thought you must want to do more shopping.”

“I . . .” Out of breath and slightly in shock, Faith was having trouble finding the words. Something along the lines of “I’ve been buried alive?” Instead she asked, “Who told you I was going with the Nashes?”

Francesca looked puzzled. “We were all coming out of the Contucci Cantina and I’m not sure who it was. But you’re here now and I’m glad you made it! We were waiting for several people, so didn’t leave on time.”

Faith wanted to pursue the matter further, but she could tell that Gianni was eager to get going. She’d wait until later.

Tom had been sitting next to Olivia. She immediately got up and moved to a place farther back, giving Faith her seat.

“Thank you,” Faith said. She really, really wanted to sit next to her husband. It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him and sobbing in relief.

The moment passed almost immediately as she remembered he apparently hadn’t noticed she wasn’t with them. The van was leaving. Why didn’t he try to get it to wait for her?

“Honey,” she said slowly, “didn’t you wonder where I was? I almost got left behind.” Now was not the time to go into detail.

“Someone said you were staying on and I figured you wanted to do some more browsing without me underfoot. We all left the tasting at the same time and the stairs were so narrow I thought you’d gone on ahead of me.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Sorry, but everything’s fine now.” His expression clearly indicated “No worries.” At all.

“Who said I was staying and going back with the Nashes?” Maybe Tom had the answer.

“Francesca told me.”

No luck here. Yet she couldn’t let the subject drop.

“Why on earth would you think I’d drive back with the Nashes? Spend all that time in the car with them?”

“It never occurred to me you wouldn’t want to. What’s wrong with them? I mean, they can be a little difficult, but no more than some of the others. And you’re the one who’s such an Anglophile, got me to like brussels sprouts, plus face it, Faith, I’m not the person who ordered the Diamond Jubilee commemorative mug that’s sitting in the china closet.” He gave her a playful poke and leaned over for a kiss.

Whatever energy remained from her precipitous dash down the streets of Montepulciano immediately began seeping from every pore. Faith felt very, very tired—and utterly baffled.

Walking into the kitchen to join the cheerful group in their aprons ready to make pasta, Faith felt decidedly out of synch. As soon as they’d returned from Montepulciano, she went to their room for what she hoped would be a nap. Tom followed her but left for the pool almost immediately while she was still deciding whether to tell him what had just happened or not. In the past, he’d tended to overreact to things like this. She hadn’t mentioned the snakes either. Part of her was annoyed at his eagerness to go, and part of her was happy that he was so clearly enjoying what was a rare treat—yes, the leisure time, but even more the setting: a sparkling pool in an Italian villa under sunny skies. He wasn’t in New England anymore. He did urge her to join him when she woke up and the kiss he gave her suggested he’d like to join her in bed. Suddenly she desperately wanted to make love, an act so very life affirming. She wanted to be transported away from all that had been occurring, safe in her husband’s embrace, but the fact that he had changed into his trunks so quickly and was halfway out the door killed the mood.

She didn’t sleep.

Feeling grouchy and weary, still shaken from what now seemed like an almost out-of-body experience—could she really have been trapped in the tomb?—the last thing she wanted to do was cook anything. Something on a plate, a glass of wine, and she was ready to call it a day. The glass of wine part was forthcoming. Gianni was pouring glasses of the Vino Nobile purchased earlier.

“We are going to be making pici (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen), the pasta of Montepulciano, so it means we must also drink the wine of Montepulciano,” Gianni said. “Pici is thicker than spaghetti and traditionally made without eggs. It holds the sauce very well. In Italia we say that we have three picis—the pasta; PCI, which is the Communist Party; and PCs, our computers! All pronounced the same.”

“We will never eat if you don’t stop with the jokes,” Francesca said and addressed the group. “This time, no teams. Each person will be making pici. I want you to learn how easy it is so you will do it at home.”

Sally Culver had the camera out and Hattie had her pen poised. “This is what we came for,” Sally said. “Nothing is more Italian than pasta making!” Soon everyone was measuring flour.

“I use a mix of half-semolina flour and half–doppio zero, double-zero flour,” Francesca explained. “In Italy this is the grade of flour that has been most refined. You can feel how soft it is, like talcum powder. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t good for you, overrefined. You are using it tonight, because you are here. When you make this yourselves, you don’t have to search out this flour. Pasta can be made as well with all-purpose flour. When I worked for Faith, we used King Arthur’s. I always remember that name. It seemed so funny, like if we called our flour ‘Julius Caesar’s.’ ” She laughed.

She continued to walk them through the steps, making a mound of the flours with a well in the center, adding water, and kneading. Faith felt her mood improve. She was on her second glass of wine and everyone was having so much fun. They’d moved on to the kneading stage—kneading, the rhythm and feel of the dough becoming a smooth mass, was always comforting.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked Tom. It wasn’t the gnocchi he had said he wanted to make, but it was close. She’d teach him to make gnocchi when they got back home if he wanted.

“This is great, but hard work. Do we really have to knead for so long?”

“If you want good pici, yes,” Faith said.

“We could have a peachy pici party in Maine this summer,” Tom said. “And challenge the guests to say it ten times?” She decided to indulge her husband. Just so long as he didn’t bring up gnocchi and nookie.

“What kind of sauce are we making for the pasta?” Hattie asked.

“The dough will need to rest for thirty minutes or more—up to an hour—so I thought we would make three sauces then and also Il Secondo—a pan-seared veal chop with sage and balsamic vinegar that gets finished off in the oven. But for now, why don’t we take our glasses outside—you know Italians live outside whenever we can—and Mario will bring a few things we made for the antipasto?”

“Perché no—why not?” Luke said. “This is a very useful Italian phrase, like andiamo, so let’s do it, let’s go!”

He had certainly adapted well to the Italian way of life, Faith thought. She wondered whether he had roots in the country. The French people she knew would consider it high treason to leave their native pays except for vacations. No matter how old or rich a culture, what language was spoken, the scenic splendors, and above all the cuisine, there was no place for them that came close to La Belle France.

It was still light out, which made the days seem to go on forever. Tom looked slightly bronzed, the result of all the sunshine. There had not been a drop of rain the whole trip. Faith knew the growers needed it for the grapes and olives, but was thankful bad weather hadn’t spoiled their precious time here. As for the other things, the things that were not at all precious, she packed them up in the storage containers of her mind and reached for a crostini. Francesca had made some with different toppings from those of the other night. Faith picked one thickly spread with olive pesto, made tangy, Francesca had explained, by adding capers and a squeeze of lemon to the garlic and olive puree. Faith loved the traditional pesto with EVOO, basil, and pignoli, but liked to vary it with pestos made from parsley, mint, arugula, or cilantro—but always lots of garlic. She followed the pesto crostini with lardo, a succulent sliver of that heavenly fat on the toasted bread—why were all the things that tasted so good so bad for you?

They were talking about cookbooks. Olivia mentioned Elizabeth David, which seemed to find favor with Constance, who then brought up the person who she declared started it all—Mrs. Beeton.

“It’s been the food bible for over a hundred and fifty years. I can tell you it’s on my shelf—right next to that adorable Jamie Oliver.”

Clearly Constance had a weakness for attractive men. As usual she was sitting next to, and close to, Luke. It made Faith think more kindly of the difficult woman, so she didn’t correct her. Poor Isabella Beeton was dead at twenty-eight, never knowing she would become quite literally a household name and also never hearing the criticism that most of her recipes were copied from other sources. Not that she had claimed they were original, but Faith kept her mouth firmly shut as she savored one more crostini—chicken liver this time. No need to smash Constance’s kitchen idol.

Luke had no such compunction, offering up his own lares and penates. “Cara signora, I’m afraid your Mrs. Beeton is a recent addition. The honor of the first cookery writer goes to our own Caelius Apicius. De Re Coquinaria, ‘On the Subject of Cooking,’ was written in the late fourth century for professional chefs in Rome.”

“Is that the book that describes all those Roman favorites like ostriches, peacocks, and even little dormice?” Sally turned the corners of her mouth down.

Luke nodded. “It was translated sometime in the 1930s, and while not—what do you call it, a page turner?—it’s interesting to see how many of the things we prize today, like truffles, as well as cooking techniques, are the same.”

“I would like to see a copy of that book,” Francesca said. “Perhaps we could duplicate some of the more simple recipes.”

Faith had looked through the book a long time ago, and what she remembered was that whoever wrote it, another culinary conundrum, had been an early proponent of letting nothing go to waste. It seemed every part of the animal, and the vegetables, was used as stuffing or was stuffed. She was surprised to hear that Sally was familiar with the book, although Dover Press had a current reprint. She was not surprised, however, that Luke was. He was an epicure obviously. But what was that about “our own Caelius Apicius”? The Frenchman was becoming more Italian with each passing day.

The crostini had made her thirsty and she needed some water. She tried to catch Francesca’s eye. They should be going inside soon. Sufficient time had passed to let the dough rest before making the pasta, but Francesca, and Gianni also, were deep in conversation with their guests. She had the feeling the Rossis were staging the evening as they had the whole day, the whole week so far. When people were having a good time, they let it go on. The dough would still be fine twenty minutes or so from now. Deciding not to wait for some water, Faith went around the house to the back door of the kitchen and walked over to the sink to fill her empty glass from the tap.

Mario was at one of the stations. He was startled by her entry and dropped the container he’d been holding. Salt spilled all over the floor. He looked horrified, and she wondered what the big deal was—extremely superstitious? And then everything became clear.

It was Mario. Mario spoiling the cream, Mario depositing decapitated serpi in the tubs, and now Mario mixing fine salt into the flour that they would be using to dust the tables, and the finished pasta as well. It would ruin the dish.

He started speaking rapidly in Italian and as she was trying to figure out how she could prevent him from taking off and get one of the Rossis at the same time, Francesca came through the other door.

“I think we are ready to finish making the meal.” She had a big smile on her face that did not disappear when she saw the mess. She said something that Faith assumed was along the lines of “no problem, get a broom.”

“It’s Mario! Mario is the one playing all these nasty tricks!” Faith stretched her arm out and pointed her finger at him. How to say “J’accuse” in Italian?

“What are you talking about?” Francesca’s eyes went to the table and she took it all in. Immediately she rushed across the kitchen, grabbed his arm, and began yelling.

“Do you want me to get Gianni—and Tom?” Faith asked. Reinforcements seemed like a good idea.

She wasn’t sure Francesca had heard her, she was shouting so loud, and then suddenly she stopped. Mario was sobbing some words out. A little boy caught, soon to be punished. Francesca pushed him onto one of the stools. He didn’t move a muscle.

“What to do? What to do?” Francesca said, looking over at her friend.

It seemed pretty obvious to Faith. If not have him arrested, then immediately escort him off the premises. What had Mario said that was causing Francesca to hesitate, as she clearly was?

“There is a woman,” Francesca said, “not too far from here who has a cooking school, has had it for many years. I spoke to her to tell her we were going to be doing this. She wished me luck and said she had more students than she could take. That there was room for everybody.”

“She changed her mind?” Faith said. She knew where this was going. Francesca nodded. “It’s not that she’s losing students. At least that’s what Mario says, but when she thought about it she wanted to be the only one.”

“That’s ridiculous! There are cooking classes and cooking schools all over Tuscany—and especially in this area!”

“I shouldn’t have gone to her in the first place. Maybe she wouldn’t have known about us.”

“So she hired Mario to make sure you failed.”

Francesca paused to unleash another stream of invective in Italian at the hapless young man.

“He paid Alberto to quit, which Alberto wanted to do anyway, because he has a girlfriend in Milano and he was afraid she might leave him if he was gone for so long. I’m afraid I have no choice, Faith. I need someone for the classes, especially for the rest of this one.” She paused. “I never told Gianni about what has been happening, so I don’t have to tell him now.”

“But can you trust Mario? What will he tell that woman, and by the way, she’s the real villain here!”

“I think I can trust him now. He has rented his place in the Roma apartment and has nowhere to go, no job. It’s not a good time to be without work, especially for the young people. He won’t find another one easily and he knows his way around a kitchen. As for the woman, he will tell her he was discovered and if she makes more trouble, we will go to the polizia. She will stay away from us.”

Faith thought a moment. “If anything more happens, you’ll know where to look and he’ll have that hanging over his head, so maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.”

And, she said to herself, now we know it wasn’t one of the group. There was an odd sort of relief in that. She’d been so sure there had been an undercurrent. Well, there still was, but at least it wasn’t slithering.

“Look, you go and stall people a little more,” Francesca said. “Pour more wine. I want to talk to him and be sure.”

Mario had stopped crying and now looked completely terrified. Francesca was scary when she was mad. Faith had seen it once all those years ago and if she’d been Mario, she’d be shaking in her boots, too, or rather the chef Mario Batali–like Crocs he was wearing.

Out on the terrace, there was no need to stall. As at the picnic, no one seemed to want to move. Tom was asking Gianni about buses to Siena. Faith knew he wanted to visit the cathedral and especially the adjoining Piccolomini Library with its sixteenth-century Pinturicchio frescoes. He’d confessed to her that he wouldn’t mind taking a little time off from the culinary part of the week, and it seemed like tomorrow was the best choice. Friday was the last day, and he wanted to be here for that—everyone would depart Saturday morning and the new group would arrive on Sunday, as they had. Thinking about the new arrivals coming on the heels of those departing, Faith knew Francesca was right. She couldn’t fire Mario. Gianni’s sister had filled in before, but it had been difficult for her to leave her family, and she only spoke Italian. Faith resolved to have a little heart-to-heart with the young man before she left, however. She might be across an ocean, but she’d be watching him.

“There is a very good bus from the village. I can take you in the morning. Siena is not far. If you like, you could take my scooter instead,” Gianni said.

Faith saw her husband’s eyes light up. She also saw herself in black throwing a rose on top of a coffin, Ben and Amy clinging tearfully to her. She started to object. It wasn’t Tom’s ability to manage the Vespa, it was the other guys . . .

“It’s very tempting, except Faith wants to stay here, and Gina Lollobrigida isn’t available to sit pillion, so I think I’ll stick with the bus, but thank you.”

“Now that was an actress,” Len said. “I must have been, I don’t know, in my teens and we went to some artsy movie theater in Montclair that was showing old Bogie movies and we saw her in Beat the Devil. Mamma mia!”

“Maybe I should get a pail of water from the pool and throw it at you,” Terry said, gesturing with her half-full wineglass. It seemed she’d toss that, but instead she drained it and gave her husband a wicked look. “So like you’re going to pay for implants?”

Time to change the subject.

“Be sure to bring back some panforte for the kids,” Faith said. “I know it’s sold all over, but it will be special to have it come from Siena.”

Hattie piped up, “It’s not like Aunt Sister’s fruitcake, that’s for sure! I think I still have a couple of them from the 1980s.”

Again Faith gave a thought to the aunt/niece’s food knowledge. Panforte was indeed an Italian fruitcake.

“I don’t know what your aunt’s recipe involves,” she said. “And maybe it’s one of those fruitcakes that’s supposedly been passed around from family to family, trying to get rid of it for years, but panforte is quite different from what we think of as fruitcake. It has dried fruit—always lemons and oranges—almonds and honey, but it’s moist and chewy, thin with confectioner’s sugar on top.”

“It sounds delicious,” Sky said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Gianni chimed in, “It is from the medieval time and even though you can find it other places, Siena is the place where it’s most famous. Some say that you have to have seventeen ingredients for the seventeen contrade in the town.”

“Why don’t I bring back enough for us to have as dessert tomorrow night?” Tom offered just as Francesca and Mario came outside.

“Grazie mille, Tom. Now, time to work,” she called gaily. “Roll up your sleeves.”

First they prepared the marinated veal chops, adding plenty of fresh sage, and then divided into two groups to make the ragus, one meatless. They would both need to simmer (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen).

Afterward, each person’s dough was retrieved, and soon all were engaged in rolling long strands out by hand. Faith again felt transported back to nursery school. They weren’t going to coil the results into a pot, but the atmosphere was much the same. Roderick, wineglass in hand, wasn’t even pretending to try. Olivia, predictably, was the best and soon had a tray of pici all the same length and thickness.

“You must be a ringer,” Jack called out. “If we’re going to eat tonight, you’d better come help me. The darn things keep coming apart.”

Sally seemed to be the photographer and her aunt the note taker. “I want to write down the sauces,” Hattie said. “Are all the ones on these sheets going to be in the binder?” They’d finished their trays, a more than creditable job.

“I’m adding one, but it is so simple, you will remember. In any case, I’ll put it in with the rest,” Francesca said.

As at each lesson, Francesca had passed out the copies of the recipes they were making at the time—and they would get smeared with oil, flour, and other ingredients. It was a great idea to provide everyone with what amounted to a little cookbook, pristine, to take home at the end.

“What is it? I want to write it down anyway.” Hattie clicked her ballpoint and started to write something down. “Oh, H-E-double hockey sticks! This pen doesn’t work!”

“I think I have one,” Tom said and pulled a pen from his pants pocket. He’d changed into his chinos after his swim, the same ones he’d been wearing in Rome. Faith tried to stop him. It wasn’t just a pen. It was Freddy’s pen. She didn’t want to lose it.

Sometimes telepathy works. As Tom was handing it to Hattie he said, “I’ll need to have it back, though. It belonged to a friend of ours.” He looked over at the Rossis. “Freddy—Freddy Ives.” They both nodded. “Anyway it has sentimental value, but please use it tonight.”

“Thank you, darlin.’ I’ll take very good care of it.”

Except it immediately slipped from Hattie’s hand, which was still slightly moist from rolling out the strands of pasta, and fell on the hard surface of the table before dropping to the ground.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I hope it’s not broken!”

The old-fashioned fountain pen had split open and Faith grabbed the towel from her waist to mop up the ink before it could stain the flooring. But there wasn’t any ink. There wasn’t a cartridge either. Just the cap and point, now separated, and the barrel with a small rolled-up piece of paper poking out. Hattie grabbed it.

“Did you know there was a message in here? Like in a bottle!” She sounded excited, and the rest of the group looked over. Faith quickly took the paper from Hattie’s hand and bent to pick up the pen parts.

“Oh yes, that’s what made it special. His note. Tom, you must have forgotten that the pen didn’t work, but I have a pencil. Will that do?”

It would, and the whole incident was over as soon as it began.

But not for Faith. That’s what Freddy had been trying to tell them. He’d concealed something in the pen, information of some kind. She wanted to dash up to her room to read it immediately. She was back in the Piazza Farnese hearing Freddy’s words, “You have to stop them. They’re going to ki . . .” and then once more he had said “pen.” Her pici were done, yet she stayed where she was. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt that there had been a subtle change in the room—a heightened awareness coming from someone that made her decide to bide her time.

Less than two hours later, they were all digging into the fruits of their labor—another memorable meal around the large, now-familiar dining room table. Francesca’s three sauces were the traditional Montepulciano one, Pici Cacio e Pepe—only three ingredients: the cooked pici tossed in a large skillet with a bit of the pasta water, grated pecorino, and a very generous amount of freshly ground black pepper; another simple preparation adding garlic, oil, and parsley to the Pici Cacio e Pepe; and finally the two ragus, a meatless one and one with pancetta—the bacon from a local farm.

Len was enthusing over the pici with the pancetta ragu. “I never saw anything for dinner on a plate that wasn’t red until I was out of school. We Jersey Italianos called it ‘gravy’ and my grandmother’s was the best. Not that this isn’t great.”

“The food of our childhood is always the best,” Gianni said. “ ‘Ragu’ just means ‘sauce,’ or here in Tuscany we also call it ‘sugo.’ And my grandmother’s was the best, too.”

He ducked slightly as Francesca picked up a piece of bread to throw at him. She put it on her plate and said, “My nonna’s was better, and this is her recipe! She used to call the chopped carrot, onion, and celery that we started this sauce with—and that we use for so many dishes—the ‘holy trinity’!”

After sampling each of the picis and a serving of the tender veal redolent from the marinade and the aged balsamic vinegar used to deglaze the pans, with some garlicky chickpeas, ceci, as a side, Faith knew she couldn’t eat another bite. Yet when Francesca brought out the limoncello granita she’d made, somehow Faith found room. The cool ice with its rich lemon liqueur taste went down perfectly. Another exceptional meal, and she’d have to remember the term “holy trinity” for what was called a mirepoix in most kitchens, from the French.

By the time they finished, it was quite late. Pleading a long day, Faith told the group she needed to head for bed, bidding them, “Buona notte.”

For bed, but first for whatever message Freddy had left in the pen.

Tom was not far behind.

“Stupid, how could I be so stupid?” Tom said when they were alone in their room. “I should have thought of something hidden in the pen immediately.”

He had been a big Hardy Boys fan, reading his dad’s old books, but there was no need for him to beat up on himself. She was the one who should have thought of it, given her more than passing acquaintance over the years with crime and subterfuge. She’d been over every page of the Graham Greene novel from Freddy’s suitcase in vain, hoping for some clue, and here was the pen under their noses—or rather in Tom’s pocket—all the time.

They stared at the slip of paper with Freddy’s tiny distinctive handwriting. There was precious little written on it:

13/5 Teatro Verdi F.D.

“Thirteen five has to be a date. It’s written the way they do here, so that’s May thirteenth. Friday! This Friday!” Faith said.

“And the thirteenth on top of everything else,” Tom said. “But where is the theater? ‘Teatro’ is ‘theater,’ I’m pretty sure. Look in your guidebook to Rome. Freddy was in Rome, so it makes sense the theater would be, too.”

Faith got the book.

“There’s a Teatro Verde. It’s for kids—plays, musicals. But Freddy clearly wrote an ‘i,’ not an ‘e.’ It has to be somewhere else. We need Google. Wait, what time is it in New York? I could call Hope.”

“Or I could go back downstairs and tell Gianni I want to look something up for tomorrow. I’m sure they haven’t gone to bed yet.”

“Better,” Faith said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I’ll be right back. You try to figure out the initials. The initials of the target,” Tom said grimly. “Freddy was trying to say ‘kill.’ ”

Faith couldn’t think of any targets with those initials. She didn’t know the names of many notable Italian figures, especially political ones, save the president. Tom was back soon.

“Piece of cake. The Teatro Verdi is in Florence, right here in Tuscany, which has to be why Freddy wanted us to take the pen. He knew where we were headed. I wrote down the address, Via Giuseppe Verdi—no surprise there—but I couldn’t read anything else on the site, since it was in Italian.”

We have been stupid, Faith said to herself. Now they had only a short time to figure out how to stop what could well be an assassination from occurring.

Reaching over to kiss her husband good morning, Faith was surprised to find his side of the bed vacant. She must have been sleeping very soundly. She got up and knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer, and opening it, she saw the room was empty. She dressed quickly and headed downstairs to find him. He must have been very hungry. The Nashes and Olivia were up early, too, filling plates from the buffet. There had been no more talk about “proper breakfasts” from Constance after the first day, and judging by what she had piled on, she was now a convert to Italian colazione.

“Oh there you are,” Constance said. “I have a message from your husband, who literally bumped into me in the hall. A terrific hurry. He said to tell you he was off to Siena to that library thingy. Mario, more coffee.”

“The Piccolomini Library, you mean?”

“Yes, that’s what I said. Milk, Mario. Latte, latte—milk.”

Faith poured herself a cup of coffee and went back upstairs. She wasn’t hungry and she needed to think.

Last night before they had finally gotten to sleep, they’d decided to tell the Rossis everything that had happened and turn the matter over to the authorities. Tom had wanted to go back downstairs to the lounge, where the computer was, and try to find out more about the theater, a schedule for Friday, but they didn’t want to wake anyone up.

She went back into the bathroom. His toothbrush was wet, so he’d gotten that far. He’d also obviously dressed—his jeans, a shirt, and his Nikes were gone. He must have decided to get up early and find out more about the theater. Or maybe he went to alert the Rossis? But without her? And then why go on to Siena?

Once more she went down the stairs and checked not only the room with the computer, but also all the other rooms on the ground floor, the terraces, and finally the pool—including the garden shed. There was no sign of him. She went back into the dining room. Everyone except Jack and Sky was up by now. Francesca, who would certainly not look so calm and happy had Tom told her what was going on, was bringing in fresh cornetti. Faith scarcely noticed the mound of rich flakey pastries.

“Did you see Tom before he left with Gianni?”

“No,” Francesca said. “I’ve just gotten back from my parents’. I stayed there last night with the bambini.”

“Gianni, too?”

“No, he was here of course.” She gave Faith a slight frown, and Faith was instantly sorry she hadn’t watched what she said. Obviously the two would never be away from the guests at once.

“Stupid of me,” she apologized, thinking how often she’d been saying that lately. “I just wondered what time Tom left, which bus he caught.”

“Gianni was going to Firenze afterward to the Mercato Centrale to get the seafood for tonight. The best is from there. Once everyone is ready we will go to the small village market this morning to get the rest of what we need. You can try him on his cell, but it doesn’t always work well.”

“No, that’s fine. I can ask him later. I’ll go get my camera. I know there will be many things I’ll want to take pictures of today.”

Especially every single person enrolled at Cucina della Rossi.

She packed a bottle of water, the camera, and her journal in her bag, then sat in one of the chairs on the balcony. Another beautiful day. A breeze was setting the fields and groves of olive trees in motion. It had rained in the night and left the landscape sparkling. Totally idyllic.

Her husband had never left in the morning, or any other time, without kissing her good-bye.