The Body in the Piazza (10 page)

When they were done, the
crostini
looked beautiful arranged on the colorful platters. Cameras and phones came out of pockets and photos were snapped. Sally Culver had been documenting the entire process, checking out the other groups, too. Her camera was very professional, a cut above Faith's own, which was perfect for the trip, but when she imagined the quality of the food photos Sally's would achieve, she felt a little jealous.

Besides Faith's group's salami/fennel effort, there were a fig and prosciutto topping; smoked salmon, mascarpone, and capers; fresh tomato and ricotta; as well as some prepared by Francesca—melt-in-your-mouth slices of lardo; and Asiago cheese and smoked ham with a drizzle of fennel honey. Fennel was the new something, Faith noted to herself. Fennel pollen, fennel honey, just plain fennel. Maybe the new smoked paprika? Or was that dating herself ?

While the “chefs” were finishing up, Gianni and Luke had prepared the wine tasting in a room off the living room that the Rossis called their library. French doors led outside and, besides a wall of bookcases, there was an entertainment system hidden in a beautifully carved tall chest should anyone have a craving for Italian or satellite TV. Faith pictured herself instead curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs reading cookbooks, one of her favorite things to do—even if she never cooked any of the recipes. She'd spied some on the shelves along with an assortment of fiction in several languages.

Soon they were sampling the delicious
crostini
and tasting two reds: a 2008 Rosso di Montalcino and a 2009 Chianti Classico, as well as two whites: a 2009 Moscato di Terracina—this was Faith's favorite, the Muscat grape went perfectly with the hearty flavors of the various
crostini,
especially the salmon—and a 2010 Collio Pinot Grigio. As the antipasti disappeared, she slipped back to the kitchen to see if she could help Francesca get dinner on the table and learned that Gianni's sister was named Gianna. Had to have been major childhood confusion there when calling out the back door.

The Rossis on both sides were pitching in to make Cucina della Rossi successful. Francesca's parents had the children for the week at their house, close enough so she or Gianni could run over to see them, but enough out of the way so their parents could concentrate on the cooking school. Gianna was prepared to stay until they could find a replacement for Alberto. The kitchen was filled with fantastic smells, and as they cooked, Francesca and her sister-in-law chatted away. Faith found it very relaxing not to have to follow a conversation and busied herself with the pasta course—
pappardelle,
a broad fettuccine, made that afternoon, tossed in a light porcini mushroom cream sauce, finished off with a little butter. They could hear the others entering the adjacent dining room. It was time to plate, and Francesca asked Faith to shave some pecorino over each portion.

And they heard something else. A knock on the kitchen door.

A very loud knock.

F
rancesca and Gianna opened the door together quickly. A young man stood without. In less than a moment all three were engaged in rapid conversation.

“Do you speak English?” Francesca said loudly, taking a step back and motioning Faith over.

“
Sì,
yes,” he said and added another “yes,” firmly.

“Say something to us.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest.

He appeared to consider several options and then with a smile, recited, “Mary had a little lamb that was white. Like snow. And everywhere the lamb go. Even the school. I know one about a boy, Jack, and a pie, too.”

After she stopped laughing, Francesca told him to wash his hands and serve the pasta Faith had prepared.

“And you only speak English to that lady and the rest of the students.
Capisce?
”

He nodded and said to Faith, “I want to learn better. Tell me when I make a mistake. I am Mario.”

Francesca said something to him in Italian that Faith figured was “get going,” since he scurried over to the sink.

“Go, eat, Faith. Join the others. You are not here to work,” Francesca said.

“I gather Alberto has been replaced?”

“It's a miracle. Or maybe not. I shouldn't be surprised. When you live where I do word travels fast. Mario heard we were looking for someone at the
caffè
on the square. He had stopped to eat on his way back from visiting some family near Chiusi. He lives in Rome and just left a job at a restaurant there. He would be happy to be here for the summer and save some money.”

Faith was puzzled. She didn't think the job paid that much. “What do you mean?”

“We will give him room and board besides his wages. He rents an apartment in Rome in an area popular with foreign students coming to take courses now, and his roommates will have no trouble finding someone until he goes back in the fall, even though rents there are very high.”

“So, win-win,” Faith said and started to leave the kitchen, needing no further encouragement to join the group. She knew that
Il Secondo,
the course after
Il Primo,
the pasta, was rabbit. Francesca had prepared it by placing a mixture of rosemary, sage, salt, pepper, and lardo into slits she'd cut, and then spreading more of the mixture over the meat inside and out. In another pan she was roasting carrots and potatoes very simply with olive oil and the same herbs as a side dish, caramelizing them slightly at the end with a little raw sugar. A variety of cheeses were ripening on a large board, so Faith knew there would be that course before
Il Dolce
. And what would that be? A simple fruit preparation or something richer? Some kind of panna cotta or maybe the lusciously rich
semifreddi
that Francesca had also introduced her to all those years back—hazelnut, pistachio, chocolate, coffee. She left the kitchen amazed that she could still think about food after all the
crostini
she'd eaten.

Mario was indeed an answer to their prayers, and she sat down next to Tom content in the knowledge that with such a big problem solved, there would only be minor ones, if any at all, for the rest of the session.

E
xcerpt from Faith Fairchild's travel journal:

Every woman's dream. An incredible meal and no dishes to wash. Tom is sitting with Gianni and some of the others having some grappa. For a man who normally nods off before the ten o'clock news, he's become an immediate convert to the Italian way of life. I'm the one who crashed and am writing this in bed. Trying to figure out what I'm feeling, who I am here. Not thinking about Freddy, just about me, Faith. I read somewhere that when you travel you lose yourself. Not sure. More that you try to find yourself I think. Hard to do in Aleford, where I'm always Reverend Fairchild's wife; Ben and Amy's mom; or that food woman, the caterer. Tomorrow we go to Florence. The market and then we're free until the afternoon, when we'll return to cook. Want to see all the things am supposed to, but also plan to wander. Need shoes. Or gloves. Or maybe both.

C
HAPTER
5

C
ould she be morphing into a morning person? Faith wondered as she followed Tom quietly out of the house. No one else appeared to be up, although there were faint noises coming from the kitchen indicating breakfast was being prepared. The Fairchilds had decided to walk into the village and have their
colazione
with the locals. They left a note for the Rossis on the table where someone would be sure to see it saying where they were—Mario had solved the Alberto problem, but the last thing their friends needed was to find another empty room with no Fairchilds, or explanation, in sight.

“I keep pinching myself,
cara mia
. Can't believe we're here and I'm not struggling with my sermon—or the vestry,” Tom said.

Faith squeezed his hand. The path that Gianni had pointed out last night was wide enough for two to walk abreast. Rolling fields and vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see on either side, the dark red ochre soil a reminder of the richness of the Tuscan earth.

“Oh, Tom,” she exclaimed as they came across a solid field of poppies. “It's like
The Wizard of Oz,
except good poppies and I'm not Dorothy and you're not a lion or made of tin or straw.”

“Otherwise, exactly the same, I agree,” he said with an indulgent smile. “I don't know whether we can find ruby slippers in Florence, but I'm pretty sure there are plenty of red leather shoes. Although no clicking your heels until we absolutely have to go home.”

“Agreed.”

She was in no rush either. A girl could get used to this sort of leisure—a stroll like this with her husband, as well as knowing she'd return to a bed and room made up by someone else.

They were beginning to pass farms and other kinds of square dwellings, built of stone and roofed with rounded clay tiles, the style typical of the region for centuries. Soon they saw the massive ancient walls surrounding the hilltop village and the steep road that they assumed would take them to the center.

“Smell the acacia? It's those yellow fluffy flowers on the shrubs over there,” Faith said, pointing. “A kind of mimosa.”

“I didn't know you were going in for horticulture these days. You're beginning to sound like Pix. Not a bad thing, of course.”

Pix Miller and her family had been born clutching Life Bird Lists, magnifying glasses, flora and fauna identification charts, and all manner of other nature lore necessities. Tom's family, too, were always pointing out constellations and talking about things like the next salamander crossings. Faith figured it was a New England thing.

“Tuscan acacia honey, probably some made from these very blossoms, is one of my favorites. We have to be sure to take a few jars back.”

“Ah, gastronomy, not botany. I should have known. Now, which
caffè
?” They had arrived at the main piazza, the heart of every Italian city and town, a place almost never empty—crowded day and night with an ever-changing mix of ages whether natives or tourists. It was too early for any tour groups, but the three
caffès
that fronted on it were bustling with customers on their way to work, and those who'd retired from everyday occupations. These last were mostly playing cards on the tables outside, empty cups lined up in a row. Faith pointed to a spot at random and they went in to stand at the counter.

After consuming two
caffè lattes
and a buttery
cornetto,
Faith felt extremely content. Such a nice custom, these very civilized but efficient breakfasts. Why didn't Aleford have places like this? There wasn't even a Starbucks.

They wandered the narrow streets leading off the piazza, pausing to take photos. Faith's camera was tiny enough to fit in her pocket, and she found she was drawn to details rather than broad vistas—iron doorknockers shaped like lion heads, Egyptian faces, medieval imps; and lines of wash blowing in the breeze: blue workmen's pants, sheer lingerie. Window boxes and planters overflowing with lush blooms and always, always arrays of fruit, vegetables, cheeses, displays in bakery and butcher shopwindows. Back at the piazza, they tried the church door, but it was locked, and reluctantly they decided they'd better head back so they wouldn't keep the others waiting for the trip to Florence. For a moment Faith wished they weren't on a schedule and could create their own rhythms the way those around them seemed to be doing. The card players had moved their chairs into the shade and pigeon-breasted older women—
nonnas,
grandmothers?—were crossing the expanse, carrying baskets, on their way to shop. Was there a local outdoor market today? Faith hoped she hadn't missed it; she'd ask Francesca which day it was.

As they walked out of town, they passed the paper obituary notices, some with photos, that Italians post on walls to announce a death and funeral arrangements. It struck Faith as a sensible way to get the word out in a village this size, although she had seen them in Rome, too. An ever-present reminder that in the midst of life we are in death. Some of the notices were over a year old and the weather had obscured the print. Plastered against the old stones, they were very moving.

“So, what do you think of our fellow class members? We haven't really discussed them,” Tom asked as they started down the hill.

“I could do without the Nashes. Did you hear her almost bite Len Russo's head off when he called Roderick ‘Rod'?”

“I guess this means ‘Connie' is out, too.”

“Definitely. Anyway, a group like this is always a mixture of serious cooks and people who want a different kind of vacation—maybe to one-up their neighbors. ‘Oh yes, we're serving the
osso buco
recipe we learned to make in Italy.' ”

“Hey, I'm planning on saying that very sort of thing. Except gnocchi.”

“Don't even go there, Tom.”

“I like the Russos.” He hastened to return to the subject at hand. “Although they don't seem to like each other at the moment.”

“I agree. Something's going on there. I get the feeling this is make-or-break time, as in stay together or head for divorce court. Not so with the Californians, that's for sure.”

“Nope. Sky is quite the babe. He'd be nuts to leave her.”

“Hold on, Reverend!”

“I can look, can't I? And don't tell me you haven't noticed Jack.”

“Not my type.”

They stopped for a moment while Faith demonstrated what her type was and then continued toward the house. She realized she hadn't told Tom about overhearing Hattie and Sally Culver on the terrace in Rome. The exchange about it being a fine time to get scruples and being paid. It was impossible to tell which woman had been speaking even now after meeting them. She relayed the experience, and Tom thought she was making a mountain out of a molehill.

“Or however you say it in Italian. I'm thinking we should take some conversation classes when we get back. But, Faith, the Culvers are not a mystery. I think you're right and they're probably just trying to get around the customs limits. Not right, but not such a big deal. Nothing too criminal.”

He didn't need to spell it out. It wasn't murder.

When she didn't say anything, he stopped and faced her, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“I know you like to believe that there are secrets lurking everywhere, secret secrets and secret crimes. The people here are just your average multinational gathering of folks with stuff. Everyone has stuff, but there's nothing deep or dark at Cucina della Rossi.”

He slid his hands down and embraced her, saying softly, “I've come too close to losing you too often. This last business in New York was the worst. It's time to stop.” Stepping away, he smiled. “Now let's pick up the pace a little. They may not have cleared away the breakfast things. I could do with another bite or two.”

Her husband could always do with another bite or two, Faith thought. She was slender now, but she knew that as she got older she'd be jealous of the Fairchild metabolism, watching Tom indulge as she counted her calories. He was right about stuff, though—everybody had it, unwanted baggage. And maybe he was right about stopping—not that she'd sought out any of her previous close calls. But he wasn't right about secrets. In her experience, a group like this was hiding any number of things. Which reminded her. Goth Girl, a disguise?

“We forgot Olivia,” Faith said. “I think she's going to grow on me. And no, not like mold, which is what her dark appearance suggests. The girl has to be a cook, really good amateur or pro. She's the real deal. I can always tell.”

“So that's everyone,” Tom said. “Our companions in whisks.”

When had he developed this penchant for terrible jokes and puns? Faith wondered. Pretty soon he'd be regaling the group with “A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a trattoria” or the like. She'd have to be vigilant and nip this in the bud.

They could see the roof of the Rossis' house, shining brightly as the sun hit it, but they were closer to another roof of an even larger place. Was it the neighbor, Jean-Luc's? Which reminded Faith they'd left him out.

“What about neighbor Luke? He's part of the class,” Faith said. “You've spent more time with him than I have. He certainly seems to know his wines—and grappa.” She'd been asleep but woke up as Tom slipped under the covers last night. When he'd kissed her, there was a faint trace of the strong afterdinner drink on his lips. Grappa was distilled from pomace—the skins, pulp, seeds, and stems left after the grapes had been pressed. Waste not, want not. Faith had had the feeling the men hadn't put the grappa in their espresso, one of the ways she liked it, but in the small bulb-shaped glasses she'd seen on the sideboard in the dining room with a refill or two.

“Very pleasant guy, and yes, he's like those Frenchmen who can tell you what side of the hill the grapes were growing on and whether there was too much or too little rain that year just by glancing at the label on the bottle. He really does seem more Italian, though. Hard to say why. Maybe because when he speaks it, he sounds so fluent.”

Faith had noticed his accent, too—that there wasn't an accent.

“He was telling us,” Tom went on, “about the way everyone around here finds remains of Roman mosaics and other objects when they dig down for foundations, make a new road, or plow up a field. A treasure hunt.”

“And did he do that? Find something?”

“He's been excavating around an old well at a site on his property and has found some pottery shards and glass he thinks date back to the Romans. He wants to take down some outbuildings that aren't historic, sheepfolds and a pigsty, an oasthouse—you know, for hops—that are too far from the villa to be used for guests or a garage. We were talking a lot about it because Gianni is eager for him to get going. He wants to lease the land to expand his vineyard, but Luke is waiting to do it with a team of archaeologists.”

“He really expects to find something?”

“Absolutely. And for some reason, Etruscan, not Roman. Although since we're right in the heart of Etruscan civilization—‘Tuscany' comes from the Roman word ‘
Tusci,
' which is what they called them—it makes sense that he has hopes.”

“All I know about the Etruscans is that they were very enlightened when it came to women and produced all that wonderful art, especially those terra-cotta sarcophagi. I don't know whether it's in a museum near here, but I'd love to see the one with the life-size smiling couple reclining in each other's arms. She's feeding him a little tidbit, maybe bread dipped in acacia honey. And the frescoes—everyone's playing an instrument or dancing. Happy people. It will be interesting to hear more about why Luke thinks there's a site in his backyard.”

“I think the buildings are much farther away than his backyard. He owns a lot of acreage, but—”

Whatever Tom was about to say was halted by an argument that was occurring on the front terrace by the drive. They were walking right into the middle of it, although at the moment, the argument was one-sided. Constance Nashe was making her points loud and clear; the Rossis were trying in vain to get a word in edgewise. The other students were in the van, watching the scene unfold through the open windows.

“I specifically informed you that Roderick and I had rented a car so we could make our own way. Now, there is no more to be said. We will meet you at the market.”

Francesca looked distressed. She started to say something, but Constance actually held up her hand like a traffic cop.

“Come, Roderick.”

Gianni stepped in front of them. Faith could tell he was ready to explode. “We are only trying to make things
pleasant
”—he spat out the word—“for you, Mr. and Mrs. Nashe. It is extremely difficult to park in Florence. You need a special permit to drive in the center. You will find nothing within walking distance of the Central Market and will miss the various vendors we have arranged for you to meet with tastings of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, wine, cheese, sausages, fruits, and other things.”