The Body in the Piazza (13 page)

She rushed back through the streets, using the map, and when she got to the meeting place outside the market, she turned out to be early. There was only one person there—Terry Russo, who was carrying some shopping bags. Faith presumed the couple had separated for the same reason she and Tom had, but as she drew closer she wasn't sure that the decision had been mutually agreeable. The woman had been crying, crying a lot. Her mascara had run, giving her a look more at home on Olivia.

“Hi,” Faith said. “Did you find some nice things? Any bargains?”

Terry dabbed her eyes with a sodden Kleenex, which made things worse, but Faith was not about to comment.

“The woman—Sylvia—Francesca mentioned was great. I got a bunch of scarves. She told me which people to go to for other stuff and I've pretty much done all my Christmas shopping—lots of those leather boxes and picture frames.”

Faith always intended to shop early, but somehow Thanksgiving invariably arrived with her list still in her desk drawer and still blank. Maybe she should bring some gifts back, too.

“I guess we're the first,” Faith said. “Tom isn't much of a shopper, so he decided to hang out near the Duomo. Len, too?”

“Len isn't much of an anything,” Terry said bitterly and lapsed into silence. Then she dug into one of her bags and pulled out a small wooden Pinocchio key chain, one of the ones with a very long nose. “I got this for my husband.”

What to say? TMI, Faith thought to herself, wishing desperately that some of the others would arrive. Someone, anyone.

Her wish was granted and soon everyone except Olivia and Tom had gathered on the sidewalk. Gianni pulled up just as Olivia joined them. For a moment Faith didn't recognize her. Somewhere during the time apart she'd found a sink and thoroughly washed her face. Her hair was combed back, and she'd also bought a long rose-colored scarf that was now wrapped around her neck. Yes, she still had multiple piercings—ears, one eyebrow, and a tiny stud in one nostril, but she looked, well, normal, and very pretty.

But where was Tom? He'd been raised in the rigorous Fairchild School of Punctuality. She still struggled to make him understand that a dinner invitation for seven o'clock did not mean standing on the host's doorstep at 6:59 with one's finger poised over the bell, even after repeated episodes over the years with hosts still in the shower, putting out hors d'oeuvres, and one notable occasion when their hosts hadn't arrived yet themselves.

They all got in the van.

“Does Tom have a phone with him?” Gianni asked. “Maybe we should call him.”

Faith shook her head. Both their phones were packed in their luggage. Now that they were at Cucina della Rossi, a number that everyone had from their itinerary, Tom had said they didn't need them. Faith suspected this was to keep her from sneaking in a call to her sister, but she saw his point and had agreed.

“This isn't at all like him. I'm sure he'll be here any moment,” she said.

And there he was, sprinting toward them, much to her relief.

“Sorry, everyone,” he said, climbing into the van. He sounded out of breath. “Thanks for waiting, Gianni.”

“
Prego,
” he said. “No problem,
mio amico
.”

Tom slid into the empty seat next to Faith.

She started to ask him where he had been, but before she could, he leaned over and whispered urgently in her ear, “I saw the man who attacked Freddy, but I lost him.”

“No!” She gasped.

Tom nodded gravely. “And Olivia was with him.”

C
HAPTER
6

I
t 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.

E
xcerpt 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?