The Marsh Madness

“For sure, Signora, but the detectives have left. The officer in the car is here to help us, I think. To make sure we’re safe.” I widened my eyes.

She shook her head.

“Okay, well, I need him to be distracted for a few minutes. He is not very smart. If you give him a snack, I can do what I have to. Will you help me?”

She mumbled something that I thought was “pan di Spagna” and bustled about the kitchen, slicing sponge cake and arranging it on a plate. There was enough for five dozy officers, but I said nothing. “You take,” she said.

“Will you do it, please? And maybe the officer needs a glass of milk. I need to walk Walter before he has an accident.”

The signora is not a fan of dog accidents, so Walter and I slipped out the door along with her. She approached the car with the cake. From over her black-clad shoulder I said to the officer, “The dog needs a walk.” His eyes, after a disbelieving glance at the signora, were on that pile of cake slices. He took the cake plate with one hand and the glass of milk with the other.

Walter and I sashayed down the driveway, our steps crunching on the pea gravel, but I held my breath after we stepped onto the grass and until we got to the edge of the property. After making a big production of stopping at every second bush, we scurried toward the clearing behind the cluster of trees where Kev had set up shop.

As soon as we arrived at the spot, I could see Cherie had done what she’d promised. There wasn’t even a twig of evidence from the still. The only way I knew she’d been here were the stiletto-heeled boot marks peppered around the forest floor, and the slightest hint of Mariah Carey perfume in the air. Thank goodness I could still count on someone to do what they said they would.

Walter sniffed at the familiar scents, making the sweetest agreeable snorts.

“Were Kev and Cherie here, Walter?” Something about that little dog always makes me smile. No matter how bad things get, a snub-nosed pooch can make you feel a bit better.

Mmm-hmmm, he answered as his wild whiskers flicked at the ground.

“Well, they’re gone now.” I only hoped it was far away and nowhere that the police would think of looking. We needed a lawyer for Kev first.

The longer Cherie could keep Uncle Kev out of sight, the better.

Walter and I sauntered back toward the house, waved to the munching policeman and headed inside. The little pug skipped and skidded through the door. He felt very at home in Van Alst House.

The signora sprang out from the kitchen to greet us.

“Any chance of cake for me and not only the cops?” I said.

Walter spun in a giddy circle. He likes cake too. A paw protruded from the kitchen door and aimed for his hindquarters. But Walter was onto Bad Cat’s little tricks, and he danced out of the way.

“Cake!” the signora intoned, drawing Walter’s attention. “You want soup? Bread? Coffee?”

I resisted the urge to say yes to all of that. “Anything. I’m starving.”

“Sì, sì. La casa degli zii.” She nodded meaningfully. My Italian was getting better, and I knew that meant “the uncles’ house.” She also implied that there would be nothing there but Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, canned beans and maybe some presliced baloney. This was true enough.

Still, I didn’t want to denigrate Uncle Mick’s kitchen. I said, “Too busy to eat today, Signora. That’s all.”

I gave her a big smile. I did know what was good for me, but I needed to go hide that memory stick.

In spite of that urgency, I found myself seated in the conservatory with a steaming bowl of ravioli in brodo, some fresh rustic bread and a small plate with a puddle of extra virgin olive oil, with a few herbs and a swirl of balsamic vinegar in the puddle.

The coffee would arrive when I was finished, but I could hear the caffettiera thumping from the kitchen.

No doubt there would be dessert too. I fell upon the food like a starving wolf. I was lost in a world of taste and silky texture, paying no attention to my surroundings, when I heard someone clear their throat.

Vera.