The Body in the Piazza (16 page)

“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.

C
HAPTER
7

N
ormally there were few things Faith Fairchild liked better than seeing other people's houses. She shared this trait with her mother-in-law, who admitted as well to a secret passion for looking into a home's lighted rooms at night—“just like watching a play.” Together they had enjoyed many a house tour, and Fairchild Realty, the family business, had provided additional fodder. Faith often thought she should have gone into real estate herself, although recently a Realtor friend had pointed out that there was much more to it than opening closet doors, and some of it not so much fun.

Now, in one of the most spectacular houses she had ever been in—they were on their way to a wing that included a screening room and home gym—Faith might just as well have been viewing the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

How did Freddy's notebook get from Rome to Luke's house? Her immediate thought was that the Frenchman had to be involved in Freddy's death, but as she walked blindly behind the others it occurred to her that this could be a case of hiding in plain sight. She had mentioned Freddy's name last night at dinner, she realized, thereby establishing the relationship. Someone, say Olivia, might not have known the connection and, knowing it now, decided to quickly get rid of anything linking herself to the dead man, especially since she had been spotted with the killer. Granted it hadn't been in Olivia's room when Faith had searched it, but the young woman had been wearing those pants with all the pockets down in the kitchen and the notebook was small, easy to fit in one. Why not throw the book into a field or the trash? Things like this often had a way of inconveniently turning up again. And besides, putting it on someone else's desk where Faith or Tom would surely see it this morning pointed a finger another way.

But how? Or rather when?

They were climbing a staircase to the second floor. Faith had a fleeting impression of walls the color of polenta passing by as her thoughts churned. In fact, any one of the people here could have done it. When they'd arrived, Luke had indicated a door and said if anyone needed a bathroom, that was the closest to where they would be lunching. It was next to the library. Easy enough to excuse oneself and slip the notebook onto the desk while ostensibly using the facilities. And, Faith thought back, everyone had. Whether from necessity or curiosity, each guest save Faith herself had made use of the bathroom before sitting down to lunch or during it, Len Russo going so far as to announce, “Have to see a man about a horse,” before heading indoors.

They were all at the hotel in Rome. They were all here. They were all suspects.

She realized that Terry Russo was tugging at her elbow. “I know it's spectacular, but we're leaving now.”

Faith had been standing stock-still, lost in thought. She focused on the room. They'd been in and out of bedrooms and baths—she'd registered that much—but this was undoubtably the master, and it
was
spectacular. One of the largest beds she'd ever seen was set against a wall decorated with another trompe l'oeil fresco, this one floor to ceiling. In between Corinthian columns cerulean blue swags hung above a series of vistas, like those in the background of Renaissance paintings—tiny hill towns, misty embankments, shimmering lakes. The bed itself was covered with a white spread so pristine that Faith imagined someone whose only job was to wash and then iron it in situ every day.

“Are you okay? I mean you seem a little out of it,” Terry asked anxiously, steering Faith out of the room and into the adjoining one.

“I'm fine. The heat sometimes gets to me,” she said.

Terry looked skeptical. The temperature inside the house was almost too cool. Possibly central air or just the thick several-hundred-year-old walls. “Oh my God!” Terry said. It was her turn to stop in her tracks.

Faith, now tuned in to her surroundings, was tempted to echo the woman's words.

They were in the master bath to end all master baths. A master bath easily as big as the First Parish parsonage's entire downstairs. The fixtures were the most twenty-first century she'd ever seen: the high-tech Japanese toilet that did everything for you except the actual act of elimination; as well as a glass-enclosed shower large enough for two, or even three, with a rain forest showerhead plus jets that she'd read about—they misted parts of the entire body with one's preferred scents; and then the tub itself, sunken of course, and carved from Romano travertine. She'd seen a photo of a similar one in a suite at the Rome Cavalieri in her wanderings online looking at hotels before Francesca had sent the information on the hotel where they'd stayed. Like the luxury hotel, there was a large picture window in this bath. Instead of St. Peter's, Luke's seemed to overlook all of Tuscany. And a Swarovski crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. But it wasn't the view, the fixtures, the stone, the tile work, not even the fireplace, but the aquarium that wrapped around the bathtub on three sides, extending all the way to the top of the room, that took Faith's breath away. It was alive with exotic fish and gently swaying aquatic plants, yet what made it so extraordinary was the concave glass. Luxuriating in the tub, you'd feel as if you were immersed in a tropical sea.

“When can I move in?” Terry said.

Luke laughed. “You are welcome anytime. I admit this room is over-the-top, but ever since I was a little boy, I've dreamed of being a merman and this is the closest I'll get.”

The group left quietly to change places with the others, who had progressed to coffee. The bathroom had literally left them speechless.

As usual, Jack and Sky had stayed together. Tom jumped up and walked into the house with them. A threesome. Not a three-way, surely! Suddenly Faith was back at the window in her room. Sky was wearing a sundress now that didn't cover much more than her bikini had.

But her thoughts quickly went back to the notebook sitting so tantalizingly near, and she wondered whether Tom would notice it, too. Or did he only have eyes for something, or someone, else?

One thing was cheering her up though. Luke had said they were “welcome anytime.” He may have been talking about a soak in his bathtub, but Faith was choosing to interpret it as a more general invitation—and one she intended to take him up on just as soon as she made sure he wasn't home.

C
ompartmentalize, Faith told herself. Create some mental storage containers, fill them up, and seal the doors. And do it now. What was that quote, something like “We may pass this way but once”? And who knew when she'd pass the breathtaking scene outside again—it would be a crime to miss it. The van seemed to be climbing to the top of the world and as the road wound ever higher, the view of the valley below became more enchanting. The vineyards and olive groves had begun as well-defined straight lines, lush green with spots of color from the wild yellow broom and red poppies. And now it was all one soft color, like layers of organdy in pale hues. This was her dream trip after all, she reminded herself, taking her husband's hand and kissing it.

Once again Francesca was providing the commentary while Gianni drove.

“The first place we will visit is a small family-owned vineyard, as we are, except they bottle their grapes themselves. We hope to do that someday, but at the present we are selling them to a cooperative. As you know, we are in the Chianti Classico region, which has a very long history and we think produces the best wine in the world.”

“What kind of grapes is this place growing and when do they harvest?” Hattie asked, pencil and pad in hand.

“Like us, the Sangiovese variety, which matures in early October. The grape harvest, La Vendemmia, is a very special time in Chianti, and it is something no one who loves wine should miss. All the villages have
festas
of some sort. You may know the most famous one in Impruneta, La Festa dell'Uva, a huge all-day celebration of the
uva,
the grape!”

“I was there last year,” Luke said. “I'll bring my photos over tonight for you to see if you like. Parades with floats, amazing food, and wine flowing everywhere.”

“Sign me up,” Len said.

“To be a float?” his wife said archly.

He ignored her.

“Every year,” Francesca said, “especially these last years, we watch the weather as the grapes grow. It has been very dry, a major problem, which affects the sweetness of the grape, also the flavor of the olives.”

“Global warming,” Olivia said.

Ah, Faith thought, an environmentalist. But she was right. The signs of it were all over the world. Even in Aleford. No one could remember a spring coming as early as it had this year. Daffodils and forsythia had bloomed in March.

“So when do you harvest the olives?” Hattie asked.

“Our Tuscan valleys can have an earlier frost than other parts of the Mediterranean where olives are grown, so we must pick well before then, again mid-September to mid-October. Hard to predict now. But you will hear more about this later in the afternoon when we go to the mill.”

Gianni pulled up to the front of a farmhouse that was surrounded by several other buildings. They were in sharp contrast to Luke's villa. The age of the structures may have been similar, but that was all. No statuary, no landscaping of any sort, except for several clay pots of geraniums. A man and a woman who both appeared to be in their forties came rushing out, greeting them with smiles and a hearty welcome in Italian that needed no translation. The tour did, however, and the Rossis and Luke served as interpreters. The vintner was telling them that grapes had been cultivated on their land since the Etruscans. Maybe before, he added with a shrug. Luke, whom Faith remembered had a particular interest in these early Italians, broke in to tell them that the Etruscans were, in fact, believed to be the people who happily introduced vinoculture to the area, bringing grapevines from Asia.

“You just have to look at what they left to know how much they enjoyed good food and wine—the banqueting frescoes and the pottery—wine casks and vases, urns for all kinds of food storage.”

“I don't know about your Etruscans,” Roderick said, “but it was a Roman, Horace, who wrote ‘No poem was ever written by a drinker of water' and I say amen to that and when are we going to get to the tasting of this stuff ?”

It was the most Faith had heard him say, and amid the laughter that greeted it, she wondered at the cause of his seemingly constant need for alcoholic fortification. Something in addition to being married to Constance? The farmers looked a bit puzzled at the sudden merriment, but after Gianni spoke to them, obviously translating, they burst into laughter, too, and waved everyone into the first building.

An hour later they climbed back into the van, sated not only from tasting the winery's excellent Chiantis but also from samples of the pecorino they produced that had been served on a platter filled with olives, several kinds of salami, and bread.

“Maybe it's the wine, but I think I'm beginning to understand Italian, and if I'm right I've committed us to returning in the fall to help pick grapes,” Tom said. “Well, the kids should enjoy it.”

“I hear it's very hard work,” Faith said, amused at the way this tried-and-true New Englander was taking to
la dolce vita
. However, her amusement, as well as the pleasant time she'd just had, wasn't keeping those storage container doors closed, especially the one containing Freddy's notebook. Faith could keep the news to herself no longer. It was like a canker sore. Despite knowing it still hurts, your tongue keeps going there.

She and Tom were at the rear of the van, which was full. The Nashes had joined them for today. Even they wouldn't have insisted they could make their own way to the places the group was visiting.

“Tom,” Faith whispered in his ear. Maybe the others would assume the anniversary couple was indulging in some sweet nothings. “I saw Freddy's notebook on the desk in Luke's library.”

He looked startled. “On Napoleon's desk?”

She nodded. “A copy.”

“Of Freddy's notebook?”

This was descending to a Who's on First.

“No, the desk is a copy. The notebook is real.”

“How could you be sure?”

“The corner was bent just like Freddy's and remember he spilled wine on it? The stain was there.”

“Honey, lots of people spill things on books and corners wear.” He stopped whispering and started nuzzling her ear instead. She sat up straight.

Her own husband didn't believe her!

W
hether to give them time to digest, and in some cases sober up, or because it made sense geographically, the next stop was the mill where the Rossis brought their olives to be pressed into oil.

Francesca put on her tour guide hat again.

“Like with the winemakers, there are large
frantoii,
olive pressers, and small ones. This small mill, as you will see, uses traditional methods to grind the olives and extract the oil. If you are interested, we can arrange for you to visit one of the big places where they are using modern machinery and computers. It's very interesting to us, but since we have a relatively small harvest, we come here.”