The Body in the Piazza (21 page)

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.

C
HAPTER
9

O
f course she would soon be missed.

And then what? She tried to keep from panicking as she envisioned the search. They might imagine she had left the
cantina
and gone back to the pottery shop or for another cup of coffee. Failing to locate her at either of those places, the hunt would fan out all over Montepulciano and beyond. She tried to concentrate on taking deep breaths. There was plenty of air. The door had blown shut. Hadn't it?

But she was far underground. There weren't any ventilation shafts here. No wind either that could have moved the heavy door. So how did it close?

Faith had come full circle. Many years ago when Ben was an infant the two of them had been locked in a basement preserves closet by a deranged murderess. There had been little air there either. And no way out. All Aleford searched for them, and it had been the redoubtable Millicent Revere McKinley who had saved them, forever putting Faith uncomfortably in the woman's debt. Yet what she wouldn't give to see that interfering, overbearing pillar of several historical societies and the DAR come through the door now! The Revere family started out as Rivoires, French Huguenots. No Italian connection, and given Millicent's lifelong membership in the Cold Water Army it was extremely improbable that she would be anywhere near a wine cellar, whatever the country.

Her mind was wandering. She needed to focus. That other time she recalled going through the diaper bag she was carrying in search of anything that might save their lives. There had been diapers and all the accoutrements babies need and some other necessities for herself—lip gloss, blush, folding hairbrush, sandwich . . . Why was she reminiscing when she could be looking at what she had in the bag she was carrying now?

Nothing to eat—and because of that she was suddenly starving; a half-filled bottle of water—that was good, and she took a tiny sip; room key; updated version of old hairbrush; lip gloss again—when they found her body at least she'd look presentable; some euros; her American Express card—the slogan “Don't leave home without it” was extremely irritating at the moment; a tiny flashlight—Tom kept buying them for her, bless him; a pen; her journal—she could record the experience for posterity; antacid tablets; Tylenol; the camera—when the flashlight gave out she could use the flash for what exactly she wasn't sure, but it would be light anyway; Kleenex—she could blot her tears; a few neon-colored gelati spoons she thought the kids would like; and of course her trusty Swiss Army knife. She switched on the flashlight and opened the knife. The ancient door couldn't be a tight fit. She might be able to pry it open.

No such luck; the door
wasn't
a tight fit. Light was seeping in around the edges. But it was shut tight because it had been locked. From the outside. She could see the bolt. The door was not going to budge.

She sat down with her back against it.

She stood up and pounded on it.

“Help! Someone, help!”

What was it in Italian? French was
au secours,
but the Italian wasn't anything like that. Damn! She couldn't remember.

“Help!” She screamed louder and banged harder.

After several minutes, she sat back down on the cold dirt. It was hopeless.

The caves were carved from tufa, the limestone the town perched on. Even if she had something more sturdy than the plastic ice cream spoons, something like a backhoe, all she would be doing was digging deeper into the mountain. The grottoes were connected by a series of tunnels, but this one was obviously at the end of one or some sort of way station. The only thing she could do was wait. She turned on the flashlight and looked at her watch. The group would be gathering back at the van in twenty minutes.

She would never make it.

What she had to do was to establish a routine. Like prisoners or people stranded on a desert island. Sip water, stand up, stretch, bang wildly on door, and scream. Sit back down, lean against door.

“Bye, bye, Miss American Pie”—she couldn't get the song out of her head and found she was pounding in time to it.

Would Tom remarry? Of course he would. He was still young. Well, youngish. But she didn't want it to be anybody she knew. Anybody from Aleford particularly. And the kids couldn't call her “Mom.” If she did get out of here alive, she would have to tell him this. He'd ventured once—marrying a native from the Big Apple, no McIntoshes please with all the flavor bred out these days—and he should do it again. Hope would find someone. She'd network. Hope! The hell with the roaming charges. She needed to call her sister. Now. Except the phone was back at the Rossis' and wouldn't work here anyway. The Rossis! Gianni had mentioned these grottoes. They would surely steer the searchers to the caves. Wouldn't they?

Maybe they'd think she'd been kidnapped. That happened in foreign places. Hitchcock's
The Man Who Knew Too Much,
only that was Morocco. Not all that far away though. Well, as Doris Day sang in the movie, “Que Sera, Sera.”

She was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. She took a deep breath. Although, maybe that wasn't a good idea, shallow breaths so she wouldn't use up what oxygen there was? At least it was cool. Cold, in fact. Like the place it was. Now she couldn't get the “We Three Kings” Christmas carol of her head—the verse ending “Sealed in the stone cold tomb.” She'd be very happy for a little frankincense to send up some smoke signals right now and hoped she'd be following stars in the sky again, shooting stars, “Star Light, Star Bright.” Focus, focus, Faith! For a brief moment she was back in Aleford at the kitchen table helping Ben with his homework. Stay on task!

She got up, repeated the routine, and sat back down, leaning heavily against the door. It was the only solid thing around and oddly comforting. She felt herself falling backward and for an insane moment felt annoyed, which immediately changed to a feeling of extreme elation.

She was free!

She crawled out and stood upright on the stairs.

Notebooks with words that vanish. Locked doors that open themselves. Again, was she going mad? Had she simply imagined it was locked when she couldn't open it?

No. It had been secured. It was an old-fashioned mortise lock, and the bolt had been shot. Someone had turned the bolt to shut the door and someone—the same person?—had turned it to open it.

However compelling it was to find out, the point now was to get aboveground.

She went back down the stairs. At the bottom she heard footsteps coming from the corridor to the left and ran after them. As she increased her speed whoever was in front of her did also. Was it her rescuer? Someone who didn't want to be identified? Faith concentrated on keeping up and soon she was back in the tasting room—empty now. She easily found the way up to the piazza level, then took off down the treacherously steep street she'd climbed with Tom only a few hours earlier. Her heel caught on a cobblestone. For a moment she thought she was going to roll the whole stretch like one of those
botti
they raced with, but she regained her balance and took both shoes off, running the rest of the way barefoot. She headed straight toward the Porta al Prato and the parking lot where the van was parked. Tom, and the Rossis, must be going crazy with worry.

They weren't. In fact, the van was pulling out and Faith could see her husband sitting by the window, laughing.

She jumped in front of it waving frantically as Gianni stopped before pulling onto the main road. He looked completely surprised to see her. Francesca came out the front passenger door.

“Faith! But you were going back with the Nashes, who are staying longer. We thought you must want to do more shopping.”

“I . . .” Out of breath and slightly in shock, Faith was having trouble finding the words. Something along the lines of “I've been buried alive?” Instead she asked, “Who told you I was going with the Nashes?”

Francesca looked puzzled. “We were all coming out of the Contucci Cantina and I'm not sure who it was. But you're here now and I'm glad you made it! We were waiting for several people, so didn't leave on time.”

Faith wanted to pursue the matter further, but she could tell that Gianni was eager to get going. She'd wait until later.

Tom had been sitting next to Olivia. She immediately got up and moved to a place farther back, giving Faith her seat.

“Thank you,” Faith said. She really, really wanted to sit next to her husband. It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him and sobbing in relief.

The moment passed almost immediately as she remembered he apparently hadn't noticed she wasn't with them. The van was leaving. Why didn't he try to get it to wait for her?

“Honey,” she said slowly, “didn't you wonder where I was? I almost got left behind.” Now was not the time to go into detail.

“Someone said you were staying on and I figured you wanted to do some more browsing without me underfoot. We all left the tasting at the same time and the stairs were so narrow I thought you'd gone on ahead of me.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“Sorry, but everything's fine now.” His expression clearly indicated “No worries.” At all.

“Who said I was staying and going back with the Nashes?” Maybe Tom had the answer.

“Francesca told me.”

No luck here. Yet she couldn't let the subject drop.

“Why on earth would you think I'd drive back with the Nashes? Spend all that time in the car with them?”

“It never occurred to me you wouldn't want to. What's wrong with them? I mean, they can be a little difficult, but no more than some of the others. And you're the one who's such an Anglophile, got me to like brussels sprouts, plus face it, Faith, I'm not the person who ordered the Diamond Jubilee commemorative mug that's sitting in the china closet.” He gave her a playful poke and leaned over for a kiss.

Whatever energy remained from her precipitous dash down the streets of Montepulciano immediately began seeping from every pore. Faith felt very, very tired—and utterly baffled.

W
alking into the kitchen to join the cheerful group in their aprons ready to make pasta, Faith felt decidedly out of synch. As soon as they'd returned from Montepulciano, she went to their room for what she hoped would be a nap. Tom followed her but left for the pool almost immediately while she was still deciding whether to tell him what had just happened or not. In the past, he'd tended to overreact to things like this. She hadn't mentioned the snakes either. Part of her was annoyed at his eagerness to go, and part of her was happy that he was so clearly enjoying what was a rare treat—yes, the leisure time, but even more the setting: a sparkling pool in an Italian villa under sunny skies. He wasn't in New England anymore. He did urge her to join him when she woke up and the kiss he gave her suggested he'd like to join her in bed. Suddenly she desperately wanted to make love, an act so very life affirming. She wanted to be transported away from all that had been occurring, safe in her husband's embrace, but the fact that he had changed into his trunks so quickly and was halfway out the door killed the mood.

She didn't sleep.

Feeling grouchy and weary, still shaken from what now seemed like an almost out-of-body experience—could she really have been trapped in the tomb?—the last thing she wanted to do was cook anything. Something on a plate, a glass of wine, and she was ready to call it a day. The glass of wine part was forthcoming. Gianni was pouring glasses of the Vino Nobile purchased earlier.

“We are going to be making
pici
(see recipe in Excerpts from
Have Faith in Your Kitchen
), the pasta of Montepulciano, so it means we must also drink the wine of Montepulciano,” Gianni said. “
Pici
is thicker than spaghetti and traditionally made without eggs. It holds the sauce very well. In Italia we say that we have three
picis
—the pasta; PCI, which is the Communist Party; and PCs, our computers! All pronounced the same.”

“We will never eat if you don't stop with the jokes,” Francesca said and addressed the group. “This time, no teams. Each person will be making
pici
. I want you to learn how easy it is so you will do it at home.”

Sally Culver had the camera out and Hattie had her pen poised. “This is what we came for,” Sally said. “Nothing is more Italian than pasta making!” Soon everyone was measuring flour.

“I use a mix of half-semolina flour and half–
doppio zero,
double-zero flour,” Francesca explained. “In Italy this is the grade of flour that has been most refined. You can feel how soft it is, like talcum powder. But that doesn't mean it isn't good for you, overrefined. You are using it tonight, because you are here. When you make this yourselves, you don't have to search out this flour. Pasta can be made as well with all-purpose flour. When I worked for Faith, we used King Arthur's. I always remember that name. It seemed so funny, like if we called our flour ‘Julius Caesar's.' ” She laughed.