The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 6





It was a strangely silent group on the return trip. And the trip seemed much longer, Faith thought. She knew why she wasn’t feeling chatty, but what about the rest? Tired from too much walking and too much sun? Renaissance overload?

The Russos were sitting together, but Len was asleep, or at least his eyes were closed. Terry was staring out the window. All Faith could see was the back of her head. Sky and Jack were across the aisle from the Fairchilds, and their body language was different from usual. That is, they weren’t all over each other. Jack looked surprisingly resolute, like a man who has just dodged a bullet and is ready to stand up to another. Sky, on the other hand, looked worried. No, Faith amended, the woman looked scared.

The Culvers were also quiet, and she chalked that up to “Shopping ’til You Drop” syndrome. Olivia, the person Faith most wanted to observe, was up front, out of Faith’s sight line, next to Gianni in the passenger’s seat. Francesca had stayed behind at the house. After she’d put the food away and prepared what would be needed for the next lesson, Faith imagined she’d gone to see her children. It was hard to wear so many hats at once—parent, teacher, host, even tour guide; but so far her friend seemed to be managing well.

The Nashes were off on their own. Again Faith wondered why they had signed up for Cucina della Rossi. If they were indeed such die-hard food lovers, why not take some day classes? There were plenty of them in Florence. If what they had primarily wanted was to tour the countryside, it would have made more sense to stay in the city and use it as a base. Oh, she’d almost forgotten. They already “know” Florence. Well, they could have chosen someplace else to know—Siena or Pisa. Except, she realized, there was a kind of reverse snobbery at work here. Sign up for a course like this and then not participate. They would regale their Surrey neighbors with tales of the “too dreadful” week with “such common” people and a teacher who didn’t know beans—favas or cannellinis.

Her speculation had so occupied Faith’s mind that she hadn’t noticed they’d turned off the main road. The Rossis’ home was in sight.

After they stepped out of the van, every atom in her body wanted to hurry Tom up to their room, but common courtesy demanded first thanking Gianni and Francesca, who came from the kitchen to greet them, for the market tour and great Florentine suggestions. The others, milling about in the hall, echoed the sentiment, and Faith started for the stairs. At last! But then Francesca started speaking.

“We will start with drinks on the terrace at five, and then cook after that. Until then enjoy the pool or do whatever you like. For those of you still with some energy, there are some nice walks. Just ask us—and remember if you are hungry, or thirsty, there are always things set out on the sideboard in the dining room.”

The group went its separate ways. Faith noticed Len Russo head for the pool and fervently hoped if he was going to swim that he had trunks on under his clothing. Olivia apparently was one of those with energy and disappeared out the French doors to the rear, where Faith saw her start to climb the path the Fairchilds had taken that morning. Everyone else went upstairs.

Faith shut their door firmly behind her. It was solid oak, no question of eavesdropping, but she locked it and left the key in the keyhole for good measure. The only living creatures that could listen in on their conversation through the open windows were the doves from the dovecote on what had previously been the barn. Yet, in tacit agreement, the Fairchilds moved to the middle of the room and sat down on the bed, well away. When Tom spoke, his voice was hushed—and intense.

“It was definitely the same man.”

“Why are you so sure?”

Even if the killer had been wearing the same outfit, that wasn’t the kind of thing her husband would remember, or notice in the first place. There had to have been something else about him.

“I saw his face more clearly and longer than you did. Aside from the funny sort of eyebrows he had, like a straight line across his forehead, his mouth drooped at one side, almost as if he’d had a stroke at some time. Odd because he’s young, but there could be other reasons. Drugs maybe. Anyway, it was the same man, Faith. I’m positive. And besides, if it wasn’t, why did he take off like that as soon as he saw my face? I know he recognized me, too.”

That clinched it so far as Faith was concerned. “But Olivia? How does she figure in all this?”

Tom rubbed his hand through his hair, causing it to stand up on end. It was a familiar gesture and meant he was upset. “I don’t know. There she was . . .”

“Wait, start at the beginning and tell me everything you saw.”

“Okay.” He leaned back on one elbow. “After you left, I went to the Baptistery—and, Faith, you have to go see the doors, even if we don’t go inside any of the other buildings in the piazza. They’re extraordinary. I could preach any number of sermons on the way I felt looking at them—”

“Tom! Later!”

“Yes, yes, I guess I’m still a little rattled. I’ll try to stick to the point.”

She moved closer to his side and put her hand on his.

“Go on.”

“It was getting very hot, so I got a cold drink and sat down on one of the benches. It was away from the front of the cathedral and all the tour groups back by Giotto’s Campanile.”

Faith interrupted, fearing another digression. Tom loved Giotto.

“So you were out of the way a bit?”

“I guess you could say that, although there were plenty of people around. Nothing was going to happen.”

Hearing Tom’s last words, with “in broad daylight” implied, Faith knew they were sharing the same thoughts, seeing the same scene, the one in the piazza obscured by the dark night.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking. About what Freddy said just before he died: ‘You have to stop them. They’re going to ki . . .’?”

They’d reported Freddy’s last words to the police in Rome, who did not seem to regard them as important—just a plea to try to prevent what was occurring.

Tom nodded. “Ever since I saw the guy I keep coming back to what Freddy said, or was trying to say. We know he took one life, Freddy’s. I’m sure the word he was struggling to get out was ‘kill.’ He was trying to tell us about another attack, and one that involved more than this person, ‘them.’ But Italy’s a big place—who, when, where, and how?”

His face was anguished. His job was to provide help, comfort, even preserve life where he could.

“Since the killer’s here in Florence, that has to be the ‘where,’ and the ‘when’ must be soon. Freddy knew we weren’t going to be in Italy long. But go on.”

“I was watching a class trip. The kids were about Amy’s age, and they all had bright orange caps and knapsacks. They were sitting in the shade, eating sandwiches.”

Not peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread, Faith thought hastily. Italian children lucked out in the lunch department.

“The group left after a while and when they did I noticed a man standing off to one side. I could just see his back. He seemed to be waiting for someone. Pretty soon a girl came running up to him, and they began talking. I could only see her face and after a moment I realized it was Olivia. She didn’t look like herself—you saw her on the trip back here—so who it was didn’t register at first.”

“How did she look? Happy to see him? Like he was a boyfriend, a lover? Or angry? Or . . .”

“Nothing. Her face looked pleasant. She was smiling a little, but nothing special. I couldn’t tell what they were talking about from the way she looked. Just seemed like an ordinary conversation. They started walking toward my bench, and that was when I knew who he was. I couldn’t believe it, but I was positive it was the same man instantly. I stood up and when he saw me he took off like a shot. Without thinking about it, I ran after him shouting, ‘Stop!’ What is that in Italian, by the way? I may need it again,” he added grimly.

“I think ‘stop’ works, but today I heard someone call out the name ‘Carlo’ and what sounded like ‘basta’; the guy ahead stopped, so that could be it. We’ll ask. Could you tell where he was going? Toward or away from the river? And where was Olivia? With him?”

“I don’t know the city well enough for that, and anyway I was concentrating on keeping him in sight, not where he might be heading. As for her, I’m not sure she noticed me when he did. I was chasing him seconds after I recognized him. At that point, all she would have seen was my back. I never looked around, so I don’t know if she was following, too. He was a pretty fast runner. I’d say he’s had a lot of experience.”

Tom was wearing jeans and a navy tee shirt, untucked. Faith had taken the small knapsack they’d brought that morning to hold any purchases, so he wouldn’t have been holding anything. From the rear, there was nothing to identify him as Olivia’s fellow classmate. He could have been any one of the number of male tourists crowding the streets.

He continued. “I was gaining on him and then suddenly we were in the open, pounding across the big square in front of the train station.”

“Very smart of him to head there,” Faith said. “People would assume you were both trying to catch your train. Nothing that would draw the attention of the police or anyone else.”

“He went into the terminal, but by the time I got through the door—you wouldn’t believe how crowded the place was—he was gone. I looked around for a while, but it was hopeless.”

“Besides jumping on a train, it would have been easy enough to come back out another door and take a bus. Or just walk away.”

“And if he’s a native Florentine, he would know the area surrounding the station.”

“You didn’t see Olivia there?”

“No. The next I saw her was in the van.”

“She didn’t look out of breath, as if she’d been running,” Faith said. “Although her cheeks were a little red, which could just be her natural color under that white makeup.”

“You can see why I had no idea who she was at first.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Swim, shower—and keep an eye on Olivia,” Tom said.

Excerpt from Faith Fairchild’s travel journal:

I feel as if we have been in Italy for weeks rather than days. And here at Cucina della Rossi it’s only been a little over 24 hours. Time has become elastic and there has been so much happening that it’s stretched almost to the breaking point.

Am going to start carrying my notebook with me. Don’t want to leave it lying around. Is that what Freddy did? And is that why his is missing?

I believe Tom. When he’s sure, he’s sure. So we know Freddy’s killer has turned up in Florence and equally sure we don’t know where he is now. Probably long gone. He’d been recognized, crazy for him to stay. He’d assume Tom would go straight to the police. We talked about whether he should or maybe tell the whole story to the Rossis and ask them what to do. But there’s no point. I doubt the police here, or in Rome, would believe that Tom could have identified the killer. It was dark etc. We’d hear again that Freddy was the victim of a mugging gone wrong. And no point in upsetting the Rossis. What could they actually do?

The big question mark is Olivia. Was she simply asking the man for directions? He’s not bad-looking. Or is there a closer connection? A connection back to Rome and Freddy? She was staying in the same hotel at the same time as he was—and the same time he was murdered. For that matter, everyone here was. Although I never saw Sky and Jack there, they seemed to be every other place we went with Freddy. Francesca suggested the hotel in the materials she sent out, so it’s likely they were there, too. Spending a lot of time in their room?

Tom doesn’t think the group has secrets. He got a rude awakening today when he saw Olivia. And the others? It’s no secret that the Russos are having major marital problems, but why? What did he do? What lie, or lies, did he tell that made his wife buy the Pinocchio? Was it the same ol’, same ol’—an affair? Maybe she found out just before the trip and the plane tickets were nonrefundable? Can’t imagine traveling with someone under those circumstances, sharing a room, let alone a bed. The matrimoniale in our room is big, but not that big.

The Culvers seem to be just what and who they are—aunt and niece of certain ages intent on bargains, even if that means a little skulduggery.

But Jack? Haven’t quite figured out how to tell Tom what happened. You never know with men. He might demand pistols at dawn—or he might just laugh. Why did Sky look so frightened on the way back? Jack must have told her who he saw and whoever he was, he’s somehow a threat. The contents of the bags she was carrying could pay off the debt of any number of small nations. Where are the Californians getting their funds?

Tom’s in the shower. The pool is wonderful and we had it to ourselves. Len had disappeared, thank goodness. Swimming under the Tuscan sun with the smell of jasmine in the air is just what we needed. It would all be so perfect if it wasn’t so not perfect. That’s the only way I can describe it. Far from perfect. The water stopped. Time for cocktails on the terrace.

Faith stood sipping a Campari and soda with a twist of lime, trying to figure out how to introduce the question of Jack’s and Sky’s occupations into the flow of conversation when Len Russo beat her to it.

“So what do you do out there in California, Jack?”

Len was on his second martini. When Terry had objected, telling him that he could get those at home and why not try something Italian, he’d shut her up with, “What do you think the name ‘Martini’ is? Polish?”

Faith was liking him less with each passing moment and was tempted to tell him that the cocktail was born in the USA, prompting H. L. Mencken to call it “the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.”

“So what do you and the little woman do?” Len repeated.

“Well, Len, we both like to surf. Sky’s better than I am.”

He was drinking Prosecco, as was she.

Len didn’t let it go. “That’s nice, but you didn’t answer my question. What’s putting the bread on the table?”

His wife shot him a warning look, which he ignored.

“We’re both in PR,” Jack said. “What about you? What’s your line of work?”

Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Len said, “I’m in waste management.” Whatever either was going to say or not say was forestalled by Gianni’s appearance with a tray of antipasti. Tom said softly to Faith, “Isn’t that what all those Sopranos were in?”

She shook her head in a “not now” gesture. She was pretty sure Len Russo was no wiseguy and was just putting them all on. She’d be willing to bet he was an insurance salesman or if he did have something to do with waste management it was managing a business that cleaned people’s septic tanks.

Francesca had sent out the grissini wrapped in prosciutto, roasted peppers, olives, marinated artichoke hearts, wedges of pecorino, some caponata, and the zucchini blossoms stuffed with fresh ricotta, floured and fried—delectable. A basket held small slices of several kinds of focaccia, lightly toasted.

Food is magic, Faith thought, not for the first time in her life. Oil—in this case, olive—upon troubled waters. The mood had changed instantly as everyone began to eat. Even the Nashes unbent, and Constance started asking the Culvers about what they had done in Florence that day. Of course it was no doubt so she could tell them all the places they’d missed and that they had gone to the wrong shops, but it was at least a step toward amiability. Gianni freshened drinks and Faith reached into her pocket for her camera. A nice scene for her trip album.

It was as if she had pulled out a Beretta. Every head save Tom’s and Gianni’s ducked.

“No pictures! I haven’t done my face,” Hattie said.

“Roderick and I do not like to be in other people’s snaps,” Constance said. The others said nothing, but their actions spoke louder than words. Len put a hand, fingers spread out, in front of his face. After ducking, Sky and Jack turned to enjoy the view to the rear. Olivia actually left the terrace, leaving her drink, so far untouched, on the table.

“Sorry,” Faith apologized. “Maybe some other time.”

But there wouldn’t be another time. For whatever reasons, and each was bound to be different, no one in the group wanted to be photographed.

“Time to go to work!” Francesca said gaily, coming out the door. “Or we won’t be eating until midnight!”

After Faith was sure that everyone else had gone into the kitchen, she told Tom she wanted to “freshen up a bit.” She’d had an idea and she might not get another chance. Olivia had rejoined the others as soon as Francesca had come out onto the terrace. Judging from what the girl had been carrying on the train, Olivia packed as lightly as the Fairchilds; and Faith wanted to take a quick look at what was in her knapsack, mainly her passport. Hotels and other places routinely requested them, recording the information, but she didn’t feel comfortable asking the Rossis for a peek at a guest’s private information. Plus they’d wonder why Faith didn’t ask Olivia outright.

She was sure Olivia’s room would be locked, but she also thought the key to her and Tom’s room would work—all the locks were the same vintage. She walked to the end of the hall where she’d seen Olivia’s name on a door, slipped the key in, and turned. It was almost too simple. Yes, she should not be doing this and yes, she wasn’t going to tell Tom, but she was doing it for Freddy. There was a tangle of loose ends surrounding Miss Olivia and it was time to tie some together.

The room was a smaller version of theirs—no balcony, but a spectacular view across the valley and walls painted the color of lavender honey—gold with a slight amethyst sheen. Olivia was tidy, or it may have been because she didn’t have much with her. A quick look in the bath revealed a minimum of shampoo and other beauty products, but a separate makeup bag was jam-packed. Then Faith went to the armoire and opened it. A few shirts, a jacket, and jeans hung on hangers, along with what looked like a Liberty-print bathrobe. A surprise—Olivia had struck her more as the deadly nightshade floral type as opposed to multicolored tiny posies. Rubber flip-flops, a pair of sandals, and Reeboks were lined up beneath. There were underwear, socks, sweaters, a bikini, and some scarves in a pile next to the shoes. The knapsack was there and it was empty.

Faith turned to the small desk by the window. Guides to Rome, Florence, and a general one for Italy plus maps were stacked in a pile. There were a few new postcards and a pen. The drawer was empty.

She was running out of time. On the nightstand next to the bed, there was an unopened bottle of water and a book—a Lindsey Davis mystery set in ancient Rome—half-read from the bookmark. She opened that drawer. Pay dirt.

A gun small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand was lying neatly next to a package of tissues and a tin of cough suppressants. Small, but deadly. The same as Olivia herself, Faith was beginning to think.

The vibe in the kitchen upon her entry could only be described as hilarious. Len wasn’t even pretending to cook but had opened the wine that Faith was sure the Rossis had intended for the meal and taken it upon himself to dispense it liberally. Her eyes went to Olivia immediately. She was joining in, but alcohol had nothing to do with it. Save for the welcome Prosecco aperitif last night, Faith hadn’t seen her drink anything except Pellegrino. There hadn’t been a passport, euros, or credit cards in Olivia’s room. Now that she knew to look for it, Faith saw the string around Olivia’s neck. She must have everything in one of those traveler’s pouches. Her loose black tee would conceal it well. Her phone was clipped to her belt. It was camera, notebook, everything all in one. She’d have no need of a purse or other satchel, except when she was traveling from place to place.

Again they had been divided into groups and Faith joined the threesome of Hattie, Luke, and Constance, assuming that was where she’d been assigned.

“We’re making panna cotta for tomorrow night,” Hattie informed her. “It has to be chilled for at least five hours and it’s even better overnight, you know. I just love it. We’re doing a pure heavy cream version, no yogurt. Too bad about the calories!”

The vino had definitely loosened the woman’s tongue, and now she, like Sally last night, was revealing that she knew far more about food, Italian food in particular, than she had let on. But then this was the sort of easy dessert that was sure to have been featured on the cooking channels numerous times. It was one of Faith’s standbys for dinner parties. She looked at the sheet Francesca had given the group. It was the classic recipe, literally “cooked cream”: gelatin, sugar, heavy cream, and a bit of both vanilla and almond extracts (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen). They had progressed to the stage where they were dissolving the sugar into the mixture. Mario had set trays with small ramekins out on a counter. There wasn’t anything for Faith to do at this point, but she got a large pitcher ready. Easier to pour the liquid than ladle it into the ramekins.

“Very digestible,” Constance said. “And when our summer fruits come in—neighbors joke that Roderick and I could be supplying Tiptree, they have a Royal Warrant from the queen, you know—I simply mound each portion with berries on top or some of the preserves that haven’t been put up.”

This was all getting quite jolly. Faith looked over to see what Tom was doing. He was in the porchetta group with Olivia, Sally, and Len. Even coming in late, Faith could see that the two women had taken charge and the men were happy to look on as they deftly rolled and tied the pork.

“What’s in the stuffing?” she called over to them.

Tom answered, glancing at the sheet. “Sautéed onions and garlic, rosemary, stems and all, parsley, those zucchini flowers, figs, wild fennel, salt, pepper. Francesca sometimes uses sautéed chicken livers, too, but she wants us to taste the meat by itself tonight. I cut up one of the onions.” He was clearly proud of himself.

“And into the oven it goes,” Sally said with a flourish as she shut the door. Her face was red either from the heat in the kitchen or the glass Len was refilling.

He appeared to have appointed himself tonight’s cruise director. To make up for his earlier sour behavior toward his wife?

“The meat will take an hour and a half or so,” Francesca said, “which gives us time to make the risotto for Il Primo and do a vegetable to go with the meat.”

What had the third group been making? Faith went over to the table where Terry, Roderick, Sky, and Jack were busy making what was probably Il Dolce, dessert.

“Olive oil cake,” Terry said in answer to Faith’s questioning look. “I’ve never heard of it, but I’ll try anything once.”

“I’ve had it,” Faith said, not revealing that it was Francesca who had given her the delicious recipe, one of her grandmother’s. Italian grandmothers were responsible for most of the best recipes the country had produced, it seemed. Besides the olive oil, which had to be extra-extra-virgin, the torta called for the juice and zest of an orange, flour, sugar, milk, eggs, and ground almonds. It was extremely rich. She’d have to pace herself, reflecting that she’d been saying this at every meal so far on the trip.

She went back to her group to finish the panna cotta and put it into the refrigerator.

Constance had a spoon in her hand and was dipping it into the large saucepan. She blew on it slightly and tasted it. The spoon flew from her hand and she screamed at Francesca, “Your cream is sour! Get me some water immediately!”

Mario dashed to the sink with a glass.

“Not tap water, you fool!”

He ran to get bottled.

“How can this be? I bought it yesterday and we had it this morning for the colazione?”

Francesca walked over and tasted the mixture herself. From her face it was obvious that Constance had been right.

“Do you have more in the fridge?” Faith asked, thinking she could quickly make another batch.

“Yes,” Francesca said, and Faith followed her. Meanwhile Constance was in fine fettle, proclaiming she’d almost been poisoned. Her stomach was a delicate one and she’d often found that notions of hygiene and safe food preparation were “vastly different” abroad than at “home.”

Faith took a spoon and tasted the container in the refrigerator. Sour as well.

She shook her head, and Francesca whispered, “I got it from the same place I get it all the time. Many of us had it earlier, including Mrs. Nashe. She had a lot of it on her fruit. Nothing was wrong.”

“These things happen,” Faith reassured her. “I can make a new batch in the morning when you get more cream. There will be plenty of time for it to get cold enough for dinner tomorrow night.”

“We can do it together; I’ll send Mario early.”

But these things didn’t happen. Not in Faith’s experience. From now on she’d be keeping a close eye on all the ingredients. Unless she was very much mistaken, someone was tampering with them. To close Cucina della Rossi down before it even got started? Or for some other darker reason?

Len was pouring Constance the wine equivalent of a double and she appeared to be calming down somewhat, uttering only a few asides about salmonella and mad cows.

“Why don’t we combine all our groups and make the rest of the meal together?” Francesca said. “I need people to clean and chop the mushrooms for the risotto and more to prepare the vegetable contorni.”

The vegetable turned out to be cannellini beans with tiny new carrots from the garden, garlic—always garlic—fresh thyme, chopped tomato, and diced pancetta, the bacon cooked to a crisp. It involved much chopping, and increasingly, much laughter. Once again, food had done the trick, and the panna cotta mishap was soon a distant memory, if a memory at all.

What wasn’t a distant memory was the gun she had seen in Olivia’s room. Why would she leave it there, somewhat in plain sight? Faith assumed whoever made up the rooms didn’t open drawers, but there was no way of telling that. Maybe Olivia was packing during the day. She’d been wearing light cotton cargo pants with plenty of pockets. Once they were back from Florence, she might have placed the gun in the drawer so it would be out of the way while she cooked, figuring the room had already been made up. Maybe the reason she had it at all was simply because she was a woman traveling alone? A habit honed by growing up in the Outback?

By the time they sat down for Il Primo, the risotto prepared with wild mushrooms and truffle oil, Faith was hungry again. Smell played such a crucial part in cooking—and appetite. She doubted she’d be this ravenous if she hadn’t been immersed in the kitchen’s aromas.

It was close to midnight when they finished the last course, the olive oil cake served with mint gelato, the fresh tang a perfect foil for the rich torta. What was the name of the Florentine gelateria Freddy had told them was the best in the world? The Rossis would know.

“Your gelato is fantastic, Francesca, but I’m trying to remember the name of a place in Florence especially known for their unusual flavors that our friend Freddy told us about. Something like Serafina?”

Luke answered instead. “It’s Carapina and whoever gave you the tip must be a connoisseur. It is the best place in Italy and I think I have tried them all from the tip of the boot to the Alps. It’s easy to find. They have two stores. I’ll mark your map.”

“We need to put it on the list,” Gianni said. “How could we forget? It’s all made by hand, no mix. I like to get a doppio, ricotta and chestnut. And any of their chocolates.”

No one seemed in a hurry to go to bed, except for herself, Faith reflected. People drifted out to the terrace. It was a warm night and the stars were out blanketing the sky with tiny points of light. Much as she longed to crawl beneath the sheets with Tom, she followed the Russos and sat down. This was one of the times that she knew might occur more frequently as the week progressed, when she would have liked not to be part of a group, but on her own with Tom and maybe the Rossis.

Gianni was offering grappa. Faith had had enough to drink and the meal had made her thirsty. She got some water and noticed that Constance was doing the same. Like Olivia, she wasn’t a big drinker, Faith had noticed. Roderick—and seriously, did she always call him that, even in the throes of passion?—had as usual partaken freely of the grape all night and was continuing to do so. He could hold his liquor, though, or perhaps he was just used to holding his tongue. He was no more talkative than he ever was.

“What’s the schedule for tomorrow?” Jack asked.

The next day was a full one. Luke had invited everyone for lunch at his villa. Afterward, the Rossis had arranged visits to several wineries and the place that pressed their olives.

“I thought those of you who wished could join me in the kitchen after breakfast and make several kinds of biscotti. I mean the kind you think of as a biscotti. We use the word ‘biscotti’ to mean all cookies, or what the British call biscuits.”

Sally, who was feeling no pain, said, “Whoa, doesn’t ‘biscotti’ just mean ‘twice baked’? Because you bake them again after you slice them?”

Her aunt looked perturbed and said quickly, “We learned this from Giada’s Food Network show.”

“Well, wherever you learned it, it’s correct and I will show anyone who wants to join me how to do it tomorrow. We will have them later for dessert with the panna cotta and a glass of vin santo from one of the wineries. After the biscotti come out of the oven, we’ll go to see Luke’s house and have lunch, then visit the places on the list in your packets. We should be able to get to most of them.”

“And,” Gianni added with enthusiasm, “we’ll have time to detour to a few of the pievi, the area’s Romanesque parish churches. We can’t let poor Tom go too long without being in one, but we won’t make him do a service!”

Cat’s out of the bag, Faith thought and saw the dismay on Tom’s face as well. It had only been a matter of time, though.

“But how is it that you are a prete when you are married to this bella donna?” Luke asked.

“I’m a Protestant clergyman, not a Roman Catholic priest,” Tom explained. “And I’m very definitely on vacation, so feel free to behave as if I were any other profession.”

“Waste management?” Jack said slyly, looking at Len, who appeared to find the remark hysterically funny.

Faith tapped Tom on the hand, their signal for “Let’s get out of here.” She had had enough of her fellow classmates for now. A very long day.

“Good night, everyone,” she said, standing up. “And thank you, Gianni and Francesca, again for everything. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so well on a single day before.”

Tom rose also, but before he could follow his wife into the house, Sky put her hand on his arm and stopped him. “Wait a minute. You’re not a priest, but isn’t it the same? The secrets of the confessional. I mean you can’t tell anyone what someone tells you,” she asked.

“That’s the idea,” Tom said affably. “Fortunately no one’s confessed to murder.”

It was an unfortunate example; the group went dead silent.

This early rising thing was in danger of becoming a habit, Faith thought. Even Tom wasn’t awake when she crept out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs into the kitchen.

Francesca was, though, and most important, had been up long enough to make coffee.

“Let’s do two kinds of panna cotta,” Faith suggested, virtually inhaling the strong cappuccino—the Rossis’ morning favorite and, unlike Americans, something Italians never drank later in the day. “The traditional kind and something a little different—lemon, maybe a spice like cardamom or”—she took a sip—“coffee.”

“Do the cardamom and we can add the flavor easily at the end,” Francesca said.

They got to work. Soon trays of ramekins were filled, ready for the fridge. Mario had put the new container of cream straight into Francesca’s hands, but both she and Faith tasted it to be sure before they prepared the dish. It was fine. Mario was helping put out the breakfast things and Gianni joined him.

“Sit down and eat something, Faith,” Francesca said when the two men were in the other room. “I hate for you to work this way. It’s your time to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Faith said, adding silently, at least now. There was always something calming about finishing food preparation. She knew everyone would love the dessert, topped with a little fruit or drizzled with one of the local honeys. Maybe the notion of feeding people something tasty was why she always felt this way when she’d taken something from the oven or plated a course.

“How do you think it’s going?”

Francesca handed her a plate with slices of melon, fresh figs, and two warm cornetti on it, placing some preserves within reach.

“I think it’s going beautifully. You and Gianni have thought of everything. I’m sure you haven’t had any complaints about the accommodations, even from Constance Nashe, and you know the food has been great. But what is going to set you apart from other places—besides the fact that you’re both so nice—are things like the excursion to the market yesterday. Without you we would never have met the Baronis, or been able to taste so many different things. It’s a culinary education without the pressure of a classroom. No grades, just fun.”

Francesca nodded. “This is what we are hoping. We want to attract those who know a lot and those who know nothing. Today will be similar. They are all our friends. And wait until you see Jean-Luc’s house. It makes this look like the poor relations! But Faith”—a shadow crossed her beautiful face—“the spoiled cream. I can’t explain it. You don’t think it’s some kind of omen, do you?”

Remembering that as a younger woman Francesca had been somewhat superstitious, Faith put every ounce of conviction she could muster into her reply. “Absolutely not. It could have been on the point of turning, or something like vinegar accidentally got splashed into it. There are any number of logical explanations. The only omens I’ve noticed have been favorable ones—the stars that looked like the whole zodiac had settled in just above your terrace last night and when I woke up I saw a ladybug on the windowsill, always a good sign.”

Francesca seemed reassured, and since noise in the next room indicated that some of the guests had arrived for breakfast, she shooed Faith out of the kitchen, pausing to put more coffee on before going in to take orders.

A few hours later, the biscotti (see recipe in Excerpts from Have Faith in Your Kitchen) were cooling on racks and Faith went upstairs to change before leaving for lunch. Tom had drifted away shortly after they started the dough, and she suspected the pool had proved more of a lure than baking. Both Culvers had been involved in the entire process, clicking away at the biscotti with the camera and taking copious notes. Constance drifted in and announced that Roderick and she were going to get the paper but would be back in plenty of time for lunch. Francesca told them the nearest place for the International Herald Tribune, which is what she assumed they wanted, was in only one spot in the village, but more in Chiusi. Sky and Jack showed up just before breakfast ended and disappeared immediately after, saying something vague about going to look at the olive groves. Faith wondered what the Italian equivalent for a “roll in the hay” was, thinking the idea of one in the fields of poppies and wheat not an unattractive one. Olivia had reverted to her Goth Girl look, which Faith was now beginning to regard as a disguise, just as the freshly scrubbed Cover Girl look was one, too. The woman with a thousand disguises, or was that faces? She had deftly shaped the dough into the long thin loaves, leading Faith to think once more that Olivia was no stranger to cooking techniques. Terry Russo was, however, but eager to learn. Len was conspicuously absent, sleeping in, his wife said. Sleeping it off, more likely, Faith thought.

Up in her room, she quickly changed into a light pair of crop pants and white tee and tied a brightly striped cotton Missoni scarf by way of Target around her neck. The maid had closed the windows, and Faith decided to open them, even though they weren’t screened. They dealt with mosquitoes and blackflies in Maine. So far she hadn’t seen any similar pests, and the room would be sweltering when they returned if she left them shut. The Rossis had installed central air, but knowing what electricity cost in Italy, Faith hadn’t wanted to turn it on.

She stood at the window facing the pool and rear of the house. There was a small garden house, like a gazebo, farther down the slope where Faith assumed they kept extra chairs and other outdoor equipment. They’d trained wisteria over it, which was in full bloom, sending cascades of blossoms over the doorway. As she stood there, Faith saw the door open, and a head popped out. It was Sky and she seemed to be looking about, looking for someone? It was definitely a furtive gesture. She stepped out, and Faith thought it was a shame there weren’t people around, especially males, to see how gorgeous the woman was. A white bikini set off her light tan, and her hair almost seemed to have been sprayed with gold leaf. She let the door close behind her and rapidly headed toward the house. Faith started to turn away to pick up her bag, but stopped when she saw the door open again. Jack?

It wasn’t Jack. It was Tom. The Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild, her husband.

Luke’s house was everything Francesca had intimated and more.

The villa, much larger than the Rossis’, also looked more formal from the outside. The circular drive cut through an extensive, well-tended garden with boxwood hedges and statuary. Their host was waiting for them at the door and came forward, hands outstretched in welcome.

“Benvenuto! First we eat, then the guided tour,” he announced, ushering them down the wide center hall, which offered tantalizing glimpses of rooms to either side, before he led them through one of a series of double glass doors to the outside. Beyond was what amounted to an open-air dining room, a lovely loggia. There was a fireplace set into the wall at the far end, and Faith had a sudden desire to give a late-night party here. The table was set with an eclectic mix of antique silver and bright linens Faith recognized from a shopwindow in the nearby village, resolving to pick some up for herself. The long table easily accommodated everyone, and with a flick of a switch Luke activated an awning to provide shade.

Tom had not come up to the room before they left and when Faith joined the group, he was already talking to Len, who seemed to have recovered after his “beauty” sleep. Although they sat next to each other in the van, Faith had resisted saying what was uppermost in her mind, namely, “What exactly were you and Sky, aka Bo Derek, Miss Ten, maybe even Miss Twenty, Miss California, Miss any number of titles, doing in the shed just now?”

She was afraid she’d shout instead of whisper and she was even more afraid of what he might say—something like “What are you talking about?” “Nothing” “She had a thorn in her paw,” all unsatisfactory answers. So, she kept quiet. With difficulty.

Now he was at the other end of the table, laughing at something Hattie was saying and—maybe she might be reading into it, maybe not—ignoring Faith’s eye.

In her heart she knew Tom would never cheat on her, no nookie—or gnocchi—having occurred, she was sure, but it was still a shock. And, she’d immediately thought, what if someone else had been looking out at them? The suspicion of a rendezvous was as dangerous as the reality of one in some ways. Dame Rumor.

Luke, or his housekeeper, had prepared a perfect summer meal. They started with an Italian version of gazpacho—a cold tomato soup with chunks of the ripe vegetable and zucchini instead of cucumber, with fresh parsley, a hint of garlic, all of it thickened slightly with bread crumbs. Instead of a first and second course, they’d been combined: cold rice salad with roasted red peppers, diced red onions, blood orange segments, parsley, toasted pignoli, a simple olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing topped with shaved pecorino; alongside slices of cold chicken dressed the same with a hint of rosemary on a bed of field greens.

“While some of you have dessert—some pears poached in one of the red wines you will be tasting today—I’ll take one group around and then we will switch,” Luke said. He had entertained them throughout the meal with humorous tales of all the crises he had weathered before the house was finished. Tales that were probably, no definitely, not at all funny at the time. Faith jumped up to go with the first group and motioned to Tom to join her, but he seemed intent on continuing his conversation with Hattie, mouthing that he’d go with the next group.

Short of dragging him from his chair there was nothing Faith could do but shoot him a look that she hoped would convey her mood. It did and he seemed genuinely surprised.

“It’s a pretty big place for just one person,” Terry whispered to Faith as they trailed after their host down the hall, painted a warm cantaloupe color. Framed antique prints of Florence and Rome lined the walls. “Do you think he has a lady friend?”

Was that a note of hope in Terry’s voice? Hope that he didn’t and hope the job might be available for her? The rooms displayed the same combination of old and new, formal and informal, as the tableware. Both the living and dining room furniture could have come straight from this year’s Milan Furniture Fair—contemporary designs in glass, metal and plastics—but the walls and ceiling were decorated with trompe l’oeil frescoes that would have been at home in an ancient Pompeian villa. The one on the dining room ceiling pictured an orange grove with a mix of doves, swallows, and other birds.

“And this is my favorite room,” Luke said, opening a door at the far end of the first floor. They’d already oohed and aahed over the kitchen, twice the size of the Rossis’ and outfitted with not only state-of-the art appliances but also antique tile backsplashes and marble countertops from Carrara, Michelangelo’s preferred quarry, Constance noted for them, beaming at her host as if she had selected them for him herself. Faith had been amused to see the way the woman fawned on the admittedly attractive Frenchman, sticking so close to him that she’d stepped on his heel twice when he’d stopped to tell them something. She’d reddened only slightly and gave what some would call a girlish laugh, but what Faith regarded as being closer to a member of the animal kingdom, say a hyena?

The room was indeed lovely. And not at all what Faith would have expected to find in the heart of Tuscany. It was a wood-paneled library that would have been at home in an English country house—bookshelves to the ceiling lined with gleaming gold-embossed leather-bound volumes. A spiral library ladder made from the same rich mahogany provided access to the tomes out of reach. The floor was tiled, as was the rest of the downstairs, but was almost entirely covered by a plush, deep blue Oriental rug with red and gold medallions. The furniture, however, reverted to the same clean, modernistic design as elsewhere on the ground floor: the sofa and chairs were slip covered in white with the exception of two antique Empire side chairs upholstered in dark green with tiny gold bees woven into the damask, a nod to the country of his birth? But the focal point of the room was an Empire writing desk complete with lion’s-paw feet and ormolu trim celebrating the emperor’s Egyptian campaign. Luke gestured toward it.

“When I sit at my desk, I can see the entire valley. And the desk itself was made for the space by a craftsman you may meet tomorrow in Montepulciano. It is an exact reproduction of one Napoleon had.”

Terry Russo was obviously impressed. “I went with some of my girlfriends to the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina and they had a lot of his things. Real ones, but this looks just like them. This is just as nice,” she added hastily, lest her host think she was criticizing the copy and stumbled on. “He was short, right? They kept referring to him as ‘The Little Corsican.’ ”

Luke looked amused. “An affectionate term for my fellow, that is, the fine fellow . . .”

Constance, never one to shy away from interrupting to talk about what she wanted, did so. “Ah yes, Napoleon. Well, what I want to know is who did all these divine ceilings? Surely not some little man in the village.”

Uninterested in hearing Constance enthuse, Faith moved to examine the desk more closely and then closer still, riveted by what was on top. She’d know it anywhere. One corner worn, but more telling, the discoloration from the wine that he’d spilled when he’d poured some into their glasses. Into their glasses at Hostaria Giggetto, a scant four days ago.

It was Freddy’s notebook.