The Body in the Piazza

Chapter 8





Faith didn’t realize she’d finally gotten to sleep until a hand clamped tightly over her mouth awakened her. She struggled for breath and tried to scream as she sought to identify her attacker in the dim morning light. The shutters they had closed over the windows before finally going to bed last night were preventing all but a few rays from seeping in. Just as she was about to push the person away and connect a punch, a voice whispered, “Sssh,”in her ear. It was a voice she knew. A familiar voice. It was Francesca’s

“Come quick. I need you.”

Faith slipped out of bed and followed Francesca out into the hall. “What’s going on?” She assumed not much. It was only a little after six o’clock. Help with breakfast? Or the day’s plans?

Francesca’s words tumbled out in a panic.

“Olivia came down to the kitchen to tell me that there was a serpe, a snake, in her bathtub. I told her I was sorry and I would come get it out. That it was certainly not a harmful one. She told me she was sure it wasn’t and would have taken it outside herself, except it was dead in an odd way—the head chopped off and left next to it! She wanted me to see it.”

“The cat? You have one, right? Or some other predator?”

Francesca nodded. “I told her that and went to clean it up, but I was feeling uneasy. Oh, Faith, I checked your bath before I woke you now and there is one in your tub, too! Exactly the same! The head cut off and put next to it.”

Faith gasped.

“Who could be doing such a thing?” Francesca was twisting her hands together, an agonized expression on her face. “We have to check the other baths and get rid of any more before the others see one. I can’t tell Gianni. It would make him too nervous. He is already worried that we will fail.”

And, thought Faith, this is just the kind of story that would cause Cucina della Rossi to go under if it got out. The snake, probably a nonvenomous grass snake, common in the area, would become a black mamba, and the decapitation, dismemberment or worse.

“Let’s think. Since you slipped in here, you have the master key for the rooms with you, right?”

“Yes. But what excuse can I give for waking them up?”

“First let’s get a trash bag to put the snakes in and then I’ll think of something.” They got some bags and paper towels, and as an afterthought, Faith grabbed a pair of rubber kitchen gloves.

“Everyone is most likely still sound asleep,” she said. “You’ll knock and explain that you need to do a quick check on the hot water in the bathroom. That there might be a problem. You dispose of any snakes, rinse the tub, and tell them it’s fine. I’ll wait in the hall.”

She wasn’t sure why she thought Francesca might need backup, but it seemed like a good idea.

They returned upstairs. Francesca took a deep breath and started to knock on the Russos’ door. Faith grabbed her hand.

“Wait! Listen,” she whispered.

The snores coming from the room were so loud it was a wonder they hadn’t woken everyone up. The two women started to giggle—nerves, plus the noise was truly comical, a human buzz saw.

“It’s the two of them,” Faith said, again softly, although there was little reason to think anything short of a bomb going off would wake the Russos. “We’ll both go in. If by some slim chance they do wake up, you can give your speech about the hot water and I’ll climb out the bathroom window onto the ledge. Is it like ours?”

Faith always liked to have a plan, an escape plan. Francesca could come around with a ladder if need be.

“Yes—and you are okay to pick up the serpe?”

“Snakes, yes; mice, no.”

They were in and out in under a minute.

And there had been another decapitated serpent in the bath.

It was a typical grass snake, very thin and long—at least three feet. With its dark rings, including the bright yellow one just behind its severed head, it looked much more dangerous than it was. Had Faith not known what it was, it would have caused her more than a moment’s consternation—she’d have run out of the room screaming. Using the gloves, she’d accomplished her task swiftly and left the oblivious Russos in the Land of Nod.

“Now Sky and Jack,” Faith said, doubting they would hear any snoring, predicting something more in the nature of panting.

Francesca put her ear to the door. “Too thick. I can’t hear anything.”

Faith stepped to the side and Francesca knocked. After a moment, Jack called out, “Yes, what is it?”

Francesca did her number, leaving the door slightly open. Faith thought it sounded convincing, and in a few minutes, Francesca was out in the hall again. “Another one?” Faith asked.

“Yes! Someone must hate us very much! What am I going to do!”

“For now, get the last ones, if there are any, and then we need to dispose of the one in our room. For the rest of the day, and what remains of the week, we’ll be keeping a very close eye on everyone until we can figure out who our Madame Defarge is.”

“How could someone get into the rooms? I keep my key in a drawer in the kitchen pantry, out of sight.”

Faith decided now was the time to tell her the Rossis had to come up with more secure room locks, although she didn’t tell her how Faith had found this out.

“You can replace them before the next group comes. Tell Gianni I suggested it. And meanwhile, carry the master key with you or put it someplace secure in the other house.”

They had arrived outside the Culvers’ door.

“Just do what you did with Sky and Jack. It will be fine,” Faith reassured Francesca, who was beginning to look pale. It wasn’t all right, but she had to get her friend in and out of this room with her grisly find plus one more, the Nashes’—and that could pose a challenge.

She knocked and Faith heard a sleepy voice say, “Come on in, y’all.” It could have been either Hattie or Sally.

Francesca went inside and Faith heard the voice say, “Speak quietly if you don’t mind. Sally has to get her eight hours or she’s as mean as a snake.”

The bag for the serpi, gloves, and other removal implements were in a larger canvas satchel slung over Francesca’s shoulder. Peeking through the door hinge, Faith watched it slip to the ground as Francesca looked startled and appeared about to say something. Faith needed to do something quick. She darted into the room.

“Sorry, but I was passing and saw the door open. Is everything all right? I was on my way downstairs to find you, Francesca. I think there’s something wrong with the hot water.”

The relief on her friend’s face was palpable.

“I was just about to tell Hattie that. I don’t think it’s every room, but I will check this one and then look at yours.”

Sally snorted and rolled over but didn’t wake. Hattie held a finger to her lips. Both women were firm believers in hairnets and liberal applications of face cream. Hattie was also wearing a chinstrap. Beauty did not come without effort. Faith smiled and went back out.

“Phew,” Francesca breathed out, closing the door behind her. “That was close. I thought she was talking about the snake in the bagno.”

“I know. That’s why I went in. ‘Mean as a snake’ is an expression. In this case, Sally would be in a bad mood if she didn’t get enough sleep.”

Francesca looked dubious.

They had come to the Nashes’ room. The last hurdle.

“She’ll be very upset at being waked up. But imagine what she would be like if she sees the serpe! You don’t think she has, do you?” Francesca said.

“There are few things in life that we can be sure of, but this is one. If Constance Nashe saw a snake several feet long in her bath, dead or alive, the entire village would hear her shrieks.”

No one answered Francesca’s first knock—or the second. Reluctantly, she opened the door and walked in.

“But they are not here!”

Faith went into the room. The bed had been slept in, and unlike Olivia, and the Russos also, the Nashes were not tidy. Clothing was strewn around, and evidently both Roderick and Constance liked to eat in bed—candy wrappers and other empty packaging was mounded on their nightstands next to used glasses from the bathroom. Road maps scattered on the table by the window attested to their wanderlust.

Francesca headed straight to the bath while Faith stood watch, and they were able to leave almost immediately with yet another headless reptile. Afterward they cleaned up in the Fairchilds’ room and, carrying their gruesome burden, walked outside to get rid of the remains.

Faith had had a great many unusual experiences in her life, but this one would be hard to top.

And where were the Nashes? Up at dawn for a constitutional, what ho? She looked out the window; their car was there, so they must be on foot.

Tom was still sound asleep. Unusual for him, but it had been another late night. He was going to have a hard time readjusting to his Aleford decidedly noncontinental schedule—one that found him in bed before ten and any phone, or other, calls after eight meant an emergency. She got dressed and decided to go downstairs to have her breakfast in the kitchen. She was hungry—and needed coffee, much coffee. She also wanted to be around to provide silent moral support for her friend when Gianni came for his colazione. The episode had been profoundly disturbing—and disgusting. The question was who had the stomach to do such a thing in the first place? Someone who didn’t have a problem with snakes, clearly. The big question was not so much how as why?

Excerpt from Faith Fairchild’s travel journal:

Snakes. All I’ll need is the word to remember this morning whenever I go back and read this journal, which is not the one I thought I’d be keeping. Took a lot of pictures yesterday at the wineries and the olive mill, so those will have to serve instead of writing here about them. Before I left, Ursula gave me a big leather-bound, very fancy album for photos of the trip with spaces for descriptions and she’ll be sure to ask to see it, so unlike every other trip and the best resolutions, I’m going to actually use it, or forever feel guilty. Not that Ursula would ever intend this. She and Pix, who I sometimes think is a clone of her mother, not simply the offspring, religiously keep albums of all their trips near and far. I’m rambling. Don’t want to think about the snakes.

Or the notebook.

Travel is disorienting, yes, but could I be going mad? Freddy was writing in it when we joined him at the restaurant in Rome and the page was almost filled. The page opposite was completely filled. I can see his writing now. Tiny, almost microscopic. And the pages were past the middle of the book, so presumably those were filled, too. He was writing with a fine-tipped Sharpie-type pen. Not his fountain pen, come to think of it. Afraid of blots in his copybook? I can hear him saying this.

I can’t tell Tom about the blank book. Aside from breaking into someone’s house, although the door was open, he already thinks I’ve imagined the whole thing, and this would clinch it.

Have I?

No. I saw it! And what I saw last night wasn’t the same book.

Why did I put it back? It felt almost as if it was burning my hand. I just wanted to get rid of it, but I should have taken it, then I’d be able to see for sure that the wear and stain had been recent. Someone faking a new one to look like Freddy’s. It has to be Luke, Jean-Luc—whoever he is. But it still could be any of the rest of them. Everyone scattered when we got back from the vineyards and the mill. Plus later someone could have done what I did and snuck in. Luke was here all the time, or was he? Maybe he went home for a while before the barbecue. A quick shave in that fantasy bathroom? (Remember fish tank bathtub and the rest. Write more about it at home. Think I’ll be doing a lot of catching up after the fact. Too much else going on here.)

I’m by the pool, but sitting in the shade. My eyes may have been playing enough tricks on me without adding sunspots. Everyone must still be at breakfast. It’s very nice to have some time alone.

Can’t really enjoy it though. Why was Olivia up so early? Well, she could be an early riser and wanted a bath. And certainly made of stern stuff. No hysterics when she found the snake. How does she fit into all this? How do any of them? Now if the snakes had been shot . . .

After breakfast we’re leaving for Montepulciano, a longish drive, and other than Florence, the big outing of the week. Then back here for pasta making. Can honestly tell the Rossis they have a success. Just so long as the cream doesn’t turn again and the snakes stay in the grass.

Francesca’s an incredible actress. Gianni came in for his colazione while we were having ours together, and there was no way he could have sensed from her that anything was wrong. But then she’d been able to pull this sort of performance off all those years ago in Manhattan. She fooled me. Is she playing a role again?

Damn, Sky is coming to soak up some rays. Wish I looked this good in a bikini. Must remember to ask Tom what they were doing in the shed. Cannot believe have not done so yet. Cannot believe other more important things keep getting in the way. Husband possibly fooling around should shove all else aside.

Faith closed the book and tucked it into her bag. To keep writing seemed a little antisocial, and besides, she had some questions for the golden girl from the Golden State.

“Beautiful day,” Faith said. Start slow.

“Every day has been. We’re so lucky.”

Sky sat in the chaise next to Faith and stretched her extremely shapely legs out. Looking at her face, though, Faith thought that the woman didn’t look as if she was feeling lucky. She looked tense, almost fearful. It was the same expression Faith had noted earlier. And glancing at her hands, Faith saw that Sky had been picking at her cuticles—definitely not a pageant queen habit.

“As you know, we’re friends of the Rossis and I hope you’ve been enjoying the week so far,” Faith said. “They want suggestions from us, especially as we’re their first group, about things they can do to make Cucina della Rossi better.”

“I can’t imagine how.” The woman sounded sincere. “They seem to have thought of everything. The place is great. Our room is extremely comfortable, and we have a gorgeous view. I wasn’t sure about a cooking class, but Jack is such a foodie. Now I’m thankful he pushed. I’ll definitely use what I’ve learned.”

“I’m glad. That’s what I think, too, but I’m biased. After the course will you be going back to Rome or on to someplace else?”

Sky shook her head. “We could only snatch this week. I’m excited to go to Montepulciano today because we’ll be seeing more of Italy, but mostly because I’m a huge fan of Twilight—the books and the movies.”

Faith had heard of the series by Stephenie Meyer—you’d had to have been living in a cave not to, although that might have been an appropriate location, given the books’ vampire and werewolf characters. She knew that although they were YAs, adults were also big fans of the romantic series—true love with more than a little horror thrown in. But she had no idea what they had to do with Montepulciano.

“I haven’t read them, but I thought the books took place in Washington State,” she said.

“Mainly, but scenes in Twilight Saga: New Moon were filmed in Montepulciano. It was supposed to be Volterra. I don’t know why they couldn’t shoot there, but anyway there’s an evil vampire coven called the Volturi who live there, and Bella, that’s the human girl who becomes a vampire to be with the vampire she loves, Edward, has to go there to stop Edward from killing himself, because he thinks she’s dead. Really dead. It’s before she becomes a vampire. Oh, you just have to read the books. Anyway, when I heard we’d be going to the actual spot where they filmed, I was thrilled.”

The woman shed ten years as she gushed, and Faith glimpsed the teen she must have been. Then she put her grown-up face back on, and once more Faith wondered what could be worrying Sky. She was picking at her nails and looking toward the house as if she was expecting someone. Jack? Tom?

“I’m going to get ready. They want to leave at nine,” Faith said. “Francesca is packing a picnic, and we’ll buy wine, the famous Montepulciano Vino Nobile, when we get there for tonight’s dinner.”

“Do you think she needs any help?” Sky asked, clearly hoping for an answer in the negative.

“Mario is there, and she’s probably finished by now. If she does, I’ll let you know, but I’m sure she’s fine.”

When she got inside, Faith looked back out. Sky was standing up, peering anxiously at the house. She was definitely waiting for someone.

“We know the way to Montepulciano,” Constance had said firmly before they got in their car and drove off. No one had shed any tears. Sky and Terry Russo, another Twilight fan, were sitting next to each other in the van. Faith could hear snatches of their conversation—“I always liked Jacob” and “Don’t worry, honey, childbirth isn’t like that.” This last remark from Terry was truly puzzling, and Faith made a note to ask the Millers’ daughter, Samantha, to explain the reference. She’d gone through a Bella phase.

That left Len and Jack, who seemed to be bonding over golf. Olivia was seated with Luke across from the Culvers, who were uncharacteristically quiet. Olivia and Luke were getting along quite nicely. Faith wished she could hear what they were talking about so intently. He was much older, but May/December, or rather maggio/dicembre, romances had been known to work out well. Look at Carlo Ponti and Sophia Loren. Luke was leaning close to Olivia, but then he may just be wanting to see out the window better.

Everyone was accounted for, which left Tom and Faith herself. She’d deliberately picked the seats in the rear. It was a long ride, and he’d have plenty of time to explain himself.

Except he didn’t, or rather wouldn’t.

She’d spoken very calmly, merely stating a fact.

“I was looking out our window yesterday morning and saw Sky and you coming out of the shed in the garden. Or to be more precise, she came out first and then you did.”

He hadn’t responded and she’d ramped things up—“Looking for a rake? A shovel maybe?”

This had done it. Even more calmly, he’d answered, “I’m sorry, but I can’t share this with you.”

“You mean it’s one of those times?”

“One of those times” meant that someone had told something to Tom as the Reverend Thomas Fairchild. It was one of the drawbacks to being married to a man of the cloth. You never got to hear the good stuff.

“Let’s enjoy the day, okay?” he said.

Which translated as “Subject Closed.”

Faith wished she’d brought something to read. Something about vampires maybe.

As soon as they pulled into the Montepulciano information center’s parking lot, Faith quickly made her way off the van. She’d had a lot of coffee for breakfast, and it had been a long trip. She hoped the office would have a restroom or would direct her to one close by.

“Be right back,” she called to Tom over her shoulder.

There was no one at the desk and she didn’t see any signs indicating a lavatory. The only occupants were a couple examining a rack of postcards, which reminded her that she had to mail the ones she’d written to various people, especially the kids. A slight pang of guilt hit as she realized Ben and Amy had been far from her thoughts of late, but it passed as she reminded herself that if anything were wrong, she’d have heard. It was also unlikely that her two children, very much wrapped up in their own lives, were overly missing their parents.

The couple was speaking a language she didn’t know. It sounded like Italian, but she recognized some French words. A dialect? She was about to leave—there must be portable toilets outside, since no facilities were evident here—when the man turned around and she realized it was Roderick Nashe, with Constance by his side.

“Hi. We just pulled in and I was looking for a restroom. I didn’t know you spoke, what was that, some kind of Italian?”

If looks could freeze, Faith would have instantly become a Popsicle. “When I was a girl”—Constance seemed to be trying out for the role of Miss Jean Brodie—“it was considered impolite to eavesdrop. What you may have heard was our own patois, a little pet language. There is a restroom that you enter from outside. The key is on the desk, clearly marked. It is cleaner than one would have expected. Come, Roderick. We will join the others.”

The woman really is insufferable, Faith thought as she grabbed the key and followed them outdoors. And again she wondered why they had signed up for the course when they clearly preferred to go off on their own, although they wouldn’t want to skip this. The Rossis had arranged a Vino Nobile tasting at Contucci Cantina right on the Piazza Grande in the Palazzo Contucci. Faith was pretty sure Roderick would never turn down a free glass of anything bibulous, and Constance no doubt wanted to be able to boast that she’d visited parts of the Renaissance building not normally on view to the public, which the Rossis had arranged.

As Faith rejoined the group, Gianni was speaking. “It’s a short walk to where we’ll be having our picnic. Francesca will lead some of you, and I’ll lead the rest. We’ll be passing by the church of Sant’Agnese, which you may want to visit later to see the Simone Martini Madonna.”

Feeling vaguely like a nursery school class, as if she should be holding on to a clothesline, Faith trailed after Gianni on the narrow sidewalk as typical Italian traffic—tiny cars, scooters, bicycles, trucks, buses—went speeding by. It was another perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky and not too hot. They passed a combination Upim—the very affordable department store chain—and Conad grocery. Maybe she’d be able to lure Tom in with the promise of hardware. He seemed to be able to spend hours contemplating lightbulbs, nails, screws, and especially tools at Home Depot, so an Italian version would be a treat. She could check out the food and maybe find fennel pollen or some other spices to take back.

Gianni opened a weather-beaten wooden door in a high brick wall, and suddenly they were transported into a giardino segreto. You would never have suspected a paradise of lush grass, flowering shrubs, and trees was hidden behind the walls, which muffled the sounds of the outside world. Birds were chirping, bees humming, a few butterflies fluttered prettily. Faith half expected them to turn into Disney-like creations and start singing aloud.

“This house and garden belong to a relative of Francesca’s father,” Gianni explained. “And they are happy for us to use it. Unfortunately they are not able to welcome you today, as they had to be somewhere else, but please come in, and while we eat we can talk a little about Montepulciano. We have picked it as one of our destinations not because of this nice spot for a picnic, although that may be reason enough, but because it has an interesting history and beautiful buildings. The center is also closed to cars, so you can stroll and imagine what it was like before the invention of these useful but unattractive necessities.”

Everyone pitched in to spread the ground cloths, and Faith noticed both she and Francesca seemed to be making sure no snakes were slithering underneath. Faith immediately decided to get Tom to share so she could taste both the mortadella, finocchiona, and pecorino panino and the one with roasted eggplant, zucchini, and robiola. She’d helped Francesca and Mario finish making them, as well as others with tempting salamis and one featuring huge portabella mushrooms. There were also an assortment of olives, a salad with tiny, thinly sliced artichokes, and another with tomatoes and basil. Mario had fetched the fresh rolls from the village early that morning. To go along with the meal, Francesca had packed bottles of sparkling and still water, wine for those who wished, and to finish, fresh fruit and almond biscotti.

Half-reclining in the fashion of the ancient Romans, Tom said, “Tell us about Montepulciano, then. It’s so much fun to say.” He repeated the name of the town, clearly enjoying the lilting syllables.

Gianni grinned. “Like everywhere else around here, the Etruscans were the first inhabitants, or I should say the first we know for sure. One of the things you may have time to explore are the underground tunnels, some of which connect to grottoes that were Etruscan tombs. The tunnels once were a network among the palazzos and other buildings. Now they are for the wine, and also in some, you’ll see cheeses aging.

“We’ll go into town by way of the Porta al Prato near where we parked and where we’ll meet later. Here you will see the first sign of the Medicis—their crest cut into the stone. You always know the Medici one. It has a varying number of balls—seven during Cosimo’s time. When painted, they are red on gold, and I leave it to you to decide what they mean. There are theories about what they represent ranging from dents in a shield to pawnbroker’s coins and also the name itself, ‘Medici,’ which translates as ‘doctors,’ their ancient profession. The balls in that case are thought to be cupping glasses. You know them?”

“They were used both in the United States and England, too, and even now as an alternative medical treatment,” Hattie Culver said. “Although I think they are famous for doing more harm than good, burning the patients or causing them to bleed to death.” She shuddered.

“There are also some ruder interpretations of the Medici balls,” Luke interjected. “But I think that you should skip that part, Gianni.”

Everyone laughed and Gianni continued with a quick rundown of Montepulciano’s greatest hits, urging them not to miss the interior of the duomo with its beautiful triptych by Bartolo and the famous well, so often photographed opposite the cathedral on the Piazza Grande with again the Medici arms flanked by Florentine lions and Poliziano griffins, symbol of the famous philosopher and tutor to the Medici children. Faith thought it was rather lovely that there should have been a tribute to a teacher, the equivalent of an edifice on Aleford’s green honoring someone like Mrs. Fine, a longtime middle school teacher, adored by students, parents, and colleagues alike.

It was so pleasant in the garden that everyone moved slowly, putting some of the food away and then sitting back down to eat one more fig or munch one more biscotti. Faith looked at the bucolic scene. It could have been from any number of Italian films—a rustic feast—and like those films there was much going on beneath the jovial surface. Who was trying to destroy the Rossis’ business—since what else could be behind an act like this morning’s serpi? Someone here, or someone creeping in from the village or elsewhere? In Florence there had been commedia dell’arte masked street performers, and for an instant she pictured the people in front of her hiding behind those intricately sculpted disguises. Masks. Jack was concealing something, so was Sky. The Russos most likely their own misery. Olivia? Many possibilities. Luke as well. The Nashes? The only couple that seemed to be exactly what they were was the aunt/niece one. Except there was that odd remark she’d overheard in Rome . . . Faith’s head was spinning, and she moved over closer to Tom. Here was certainty. Usually.

The Rossis handed out maps and told the group the time to meet for the tasting.

“You will get a good workout,” Francesca said. “The streets are steep, also narrow. Do not miss the view from the Piazza San Francesco. It is my favorite—and not just for the name. There are also many places to buy ceramics. I know you were interested in this, Faith. They will ship, as will other shops. Montepulciano has been an artistic center during its whole history.” She started to laugh. “It is also known for the Bravio delle Botti. Again you will all have to come back to see this. You know about the Palio in Siena, but here the contrade—the sections of the town, the neighborhoods, I think you might say—do not race horses, although the tradition started this way back in the fourteenth century. In the twentieth it changed to botti, the big wooden wine barrels as a way to celebrate—and publicize—the wine! Anyway, two men on each team roll a botte about a kilometer uphill along the streets leading to the duomo. They train hard for this. The competition is held on the last Sunday in August, but the celebrations go for the whole week before. There are postcards and souvenir books that show it better than I am describing it—all the costumes and each contrada’s banners.”

“I’m beginning to think we should just move here for all these festivals,” Jack said. “We certainly don’t have anything approaching this back home. What’s the prize for the winners?”

“The bravio, a banner painted with the image of San Giovanni Decollato, John the Baptist, Montepulciano’s patron saint.”

“You mean they do all that for a piece of cloth!” Jack said.

“Hey, buddy, it’s a holy article and they’re bringing honor to their contrada.” Len was bristling. The subject was obviously a touchy one, close to his heart. “That’s exactly it. Honor,” Francesca said hastily.

Sally had been writing down what they had eaten for lunch. She was clearly adding the Bravio information. “What’s ‘decollato’ mean?”

“I know that one,” Tom said. “ ‘Beheaded,’ possibly because Salome demanded it on a silver platter and her father, Herod, was a parent who needed to learn how to say no. Anyway, ‘decollation’ is another word for ‘decapitation.’ ”

Faith and Francesca looked at one another. There had been quite enough decollations for one day. Both started folding the cloths, and soon the group returned to the van to stow the remnants of the picnic before starting up the steep main street. It had gotten considerably hotter, and Faith was glad she had both her sunglasses and visor.

They hadn’t progressed very far before she heard the hour strike and, looking up, saw a life-size metal figure of Pulcinella strike a bell on a tall clock tower. Pulcinella, the commedia dell’arte character, crafty, mean, even vicious, dressed in white with a black mask—the representation of life and death. Was everything today going to be fraught with meaning?

Gianni pointed upward. “This is the medieval Torre di Pulcinella. You will see many articles for sale reproducing this not so very nice fellow all over Montepulciano.”

They lost the Culvers to a shop with a display of handbags with vintage Vespa logos in the window. Others fanned out into the steep side streets.

Terry and Sky were determinedly staying on course, making their way straight to the Palazzo Comunale, the town hall, and the Piazza Grande, where the Twilight movie had been filmed. Faith wanted to start there, too, in the duomo, and Francesca had mentioned a shop selling pottery near it that was her favorite.

It didn’t take long to reach the piazza, and it was delightfully cool inside the cathedral. Faith and Tom sat in silence and then took time to look at the artwork. A large Della Robbia baptismal font drew Faith’s eye. She had always loved the deep blue and white glaze of the master’s ceramic bas-reliefs, but it was the bright green, yellow, and orange fruit and flowers encircling the pieces that made them her favorite.

“Let’s go find that pottery shop,” she said softly. If she kept to one place and didn’t spend too long looking, she could get him to shop, an activity he normally avoided like the plague, filling sartorial needs from L.L.Bean and clerical sources online and leaving all other purchases to her. When it came time for her birthday, anniversary, and Christmas, he went with Sam Miller to the Jewelers Building on Washington Street in Boston. Sam’s father had been a jeweler and it was in the blood. Faith had often blessed the happy chance that placed the parsonage next door to the Millers’ house, or vice versa.

The potter at BAE ceramiche was throwing pots on a wheel, and a young woman, whom they learned was named Roberta Rocchi, was sitting close by, beautifully decorating the ones that had been fired. There was plenty to occupy Tom, including a basement down a short flight that Roberta told them had a window in the floor looking into part of an Etruscan grotto complete with some ancient pots. Tom eagerly went to look, giving Faith plenty of time to buy a large platter decorated with red poppies, sheaves of wheat, a line of cypresses, and the hill town itself, as well as similar patterns on other pieces that she would give as gifts. Meeting the people who had made the pieces gave them special meaning. She also bought a reproduction of the Medici crest in glowing scarlet and gold for Tom to hang on his study wall. In her eyes, her husband was a Renaissance man.

“I love this place,” she exclaimed out on the street, which was little more than a sidewalk, after arranging shipment. “And not just because we’re going to have that lovely platter. But the colors of the stone—the houses glow—and everyone has a green thumb. I want some of those pale lavender geraniums like the ones in that window box and the deep red roses climbing up the wall over there! Maybe we could try a climbing variety in Maine on a trellis outside the cottage.”

Faith Fairchild was not known for her gardening skills. In fact, she had even managed to kill some fake flowers—realistic silk ones a friend gave her that Faith, thinking them fresh, promptly put in water, spritzing them as well, which she’d heard made blooms last longer. But today anything seemed possible, and she was ready to reproduce the entire White Flower Farm catalog.

“Oh, Tom, look at this view!”

They had come to an opening between houses; the panorama was spectacular. Small white petals from a fruit tree were blowing toward them, like rice at a wedding.

“We’re on the top of the world,” Tom said, putting his arms around his wife from behind, holding her close.

They spent the next hour before they were due to meet for the wine tasting strolling up and down the streets. Faith found a whole new collection of door knockers to photograph, elaborate ones with the Medici crest and others with smiling bearded faces that looked remarkably like some of the men they were passing. They stopped for coffee at a charming place, Al Tocco, on Via San Donato, and sat outside, contentedly watching the pedestrians pass by—mothers pushing strollers, older people out for a walk, and a few business types clutching laptop cases in a hurry. There was an art gallery with striking photos on display across from them that she wanted to check out.

“I could live here,” Faith said. “Couldn’t you find a church nearby?”

“Not sure about that—plenty of churches, but perhaps not the same denomination—but if it will make you happy, I’ll try. Montepulciano could get pretty crowded in the summer, though.”

They were ahead of tourist season, Gianni had told them, and there had been no sign of the hordes that he told them would soon flood the streets during the daytime. The Rossis planned to adjust the schedule to make the visit to the town a late afternoon one. Faith wanted to return immediately, imagining sitting in the long light before dusk at one of Al Tocco’s small tables with a glass of Prosecco, a few crostini, olives—how could she be hungry again? And wine? Which reminded her.

“Tom, we have to hurry. It’s time for some Vino Nobile. We’re not far.”

Nothing was too far in Montepulciano, she noted, which was much of its charm. A small place where you knew everyone and everyone knew you. Wait, wasn’t that Aleford? She was walking past an imposing stone building that a plaque identified as a fortezza, a fortress. It was surrounded by more of the vegetation she had come to expect—rich greens, cascades of blooms. Tufts of wildflowers, small daisies, and others had seeded themselves in the remnants of the old wall. It was a Medici fortress from the times when the town was caught up in the bloody rivalry between Siena and Florence. Aleford boasted no fortresses of any kind but did have an old wooden belfry that sounded the alarm on that famous day and year, surrounded by a few sad yews and not much else. The town had seen its share of rivalries—ones that pitted their football team against archenemies like Lexington each Thanksgiving—but nothing even vaguely fifteenth century. Unless you counted the pep rally bonfires, which would have made Savonarola proud.

After a tour of the Palazzo Contucci, which was designed by Sangallo, the man also responsible for the Porta al Prato and the well in the Piazza Grande, which Faith was beginning to feel was as familiar as the Boston Common, but infinitely more interesting, the group descended to the cantina far below the palace for a tasting.

Down, down they went on stone stairs worn smooth from centuries of use, passing a honeycomb of rooms on each level until finally they stopped at what Faith assumed must be the bottom and followed their guide through labyrinthine corridors with row upon row of botti. Not for the claustrophobic, Faith thought, enjoying the slightly musty fragrance of the wine cellar. Old presses and other antique tools were displayed on the walls. The low lighting suggested the torches used in bygone eras.

While they waited for everyone to catch up—Hattie, for one, moved a bit more slowly than the rest but had been proving she was up to anything—“Plan to get my money’s worth for this new knee”—Faith found herself in an alcove with the Nashes. Searching for a polite topic of conversation, she asked them nicely, “Did you have a good walk this morning? We went the first day. Lovely to be out so early.”

They regarded her with total astonishment.

“Walk, what walk?” Constance said. “Roderick and I never exercise before breakfast. Wreaks havoc with one’s digestion.”

There was no way to contradict them without revealing that she had been in their room and why.

“I thought I saw you. It must have been another couple.”

“I’m sure it was,” Constance said firmly. “Now I believe the guide is telling us about the wine we are to sample. Roderick.”

He heeled, and they moved away from what was obviously a seriously deranged person.

The wine more than lived up to its noble appellation, Faith decided, swirling some in her mouth before swallowing. As before, some of the group was partaking more liberally than others. Olivia’s glass was barely touched, nor was Constance’s. Not so with all the other men, save Tom, although his cheeks were getting rosy. He was having fun. What a wonderful idea this trip had been, his idea. They should travel more on their own, now that the kids were older. But that also meant the kids would be off to college soon and the nest empty, so she needed to spend as much time as she could with them! What to do? It was all going so fast—this child rearing. Although Pix had assured her, sometimes more ruefully than others, that you are never finished rearing your children.

Faith spied what she thought was a room used to age cheese and went to investigate. It was, and there was another one off it with even more shelves. Large rounds of pecorino were nestled on top of what looked like very large bay leaves. She’d have to ask Francesca about it. The cheese, made from sheep milk, was at different stages. There were fresh white rounds that she knew would be soft as butter inside and taste of the meadow. Others had an orange rind and some a russet one. One of the Parmesans at Baroni had been aged in wine, perhaps this had been, too? It was all she could do to keep from slicing into one or more with the small Swiss Army knife she carried. It had had to go in her checked suitcase for the flight, but she’d put it in her bag as soon as she’d unpacked in Rome. Besides a handy knife for picnics, there was the equally handy corkscrew.

She looked at her watch. Time to rejoin the group. She turned the way she had come and found herself in a room she didn’t recall, one lined with barrels. She retraced her steps and was in a cheese room again. But this one had only a few on the shelves and they looked very aged, perhaps forgotten?

Feeling ridiculous—how could she get lost in such a short time?—she picked another corridor, and then another. Ah, there were stairs leading up at the end. It wasn’t the way she’d come, but it would get her out of here.

The stairs led to a door. Faith opened it, expecting to see another flight in front of her.

Except she didn’t.

It was one of those grottoes, a cave carved into the soft earth, the corners filled with pottery shards and small metal vessels. The door slammed behind her. Air currents from the surface. Quickly she went to open it again and go back down the stairs.

Except the door didn’t budge.

She was trapped in an Etruscan tomb.