The Body in the Piazza (23 page)

First they prepared the marinated veal chops, adding plenty of fresh sage, and then divided into two groups to make the ragus, one meatless. They would both need to simmer (see recipe in Excerpts from
Have Faith in Your Kitchen
).

Afterward, each person's dough was retrieved, and soon all were engaged in rolling long strands out by hand. Faith again felt transported back to nursery school. They weren't going to coil the results into a pot, but the atmosphere was much the same. Roderick, wineglass in hand, wasn't even pretending to try. Olivia, predictably, was the best and soon had a tray of
pici
all the same length and thickness.

“You must be a ringer,” Jack called out. “If we're going to eat tonight, you'd better come help me. The darn things keep coming apart.”

Sally seemed to be the photographer and her aunt the note taker. “I want to write down the sauces,” Hattie said. “Are all the ones on these sheets going to be in the binder?” They'd finished their trays, a more than creditable job.

“I'm adding one, but it is so simple, you will remember. In any case, I'll put it in with the rest,” Francesca said.

As at each lesson, Francesca had passed out the copies of the recipes they were making at the time—and they would get smeared with oil, flour, and other ingredients. It was a great idea to provide everyone with what amounted to a little cookbook, pristine, to take home at the end.

“What is it? I want to write it down anyway.” Hattie clicked her ballpoint and started to write something down. “Oh, H-E-double hockey sticks! This pen doesn't work!”

“I think I have one,” Tom said and pulled a pen from his pants pocket. He'd changed into his chinos after his swim, the same ones he'd been wearing in Rome. Faith tried to stop him. It wasn't just a pen. It was Freddy's pen. She didn't want to lose it.

Sometimes telepathy works. As Tom was handing it to Hattie he said, “I'll need to have it back, though. It belonged to a friend of ours.” He looked over at the Rossis. “Freddy—Freddy Ives.” They both nodded. “Anyway it has sentimental value, but please use it tonight.”

“Thank you, darlin.' I'll take very good care of it.”

Except it immediately slipped from Hattie's hand, which was still slightly moist from rolling out the strands of pasta, and fell on the hard surface of the table before dropping to the ground.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said. “I hope it's not broken!”

The old-fashioned fountain pen had split open and Faith grabbed the towel from her waist to mop up the ink before it could stain the flooring. But there wasn't any ink. There wasn't a cartridge either. Just the cap and point, now separated, and the barrel with a small rolled-up piece of paper poking out. Hattie grabbed it.

“Did you know there was a message in here? Like in a bottle!” She sounded excited, and the rest of the group looked over. Faith quickly took the paper from Hattie's hand and bent to pick up the pen parts.

“Oh yes, that's what made it special. His note. Tom, you must have forgotten that the pen didn't work, but I have a pencil. Will that do?”

It would, and the whole incident was over as soon as it began.

But not for Faith. That's what Freddy had been trying to tell them. He'd concealed something in the pen, information of some kind. She wanted to dash up to her room to read it immediately. She was back in the Piazza Farnese hearing Freddy's words, “You have to stop them. They're going to ki . . .” and then once more he had said “pen.” Her
pici
were done, yet she stayed where she was. She couldn't explain it, but she felt that there had been a subtle change in the room—a heightened awareness coming from someone that made her decide to bide her time.

Less than two hours later, they were all digging into the fruits of their labor—another memorable meal around the large, now-familiar dining room table. Francesca's three sauces were the traditional Montepulciano one,
Pici Cacio e Pepe
—only three ingredients: the cooked
pici
tossed in a large skillet with a bit of the pasta water, grated pecorino, and a very generous amount of freshly ground black pepper; another simple preparation adding garlic, oil, and parsley to the
Pici Cacio e Pepe;
and finally the two ragus, a meatless one and one with
pancetta
—the bacon from a local farm.

Len was enthusing over the
pici
with the
pancetta
ragu. “I never saw anything for dinner on a plate that wasn't red until I was out of school. We Jersey Italianos called it ‘gravy' and my grandmother's was the best. Not that this isn't great.”

“The food of our childhood is always the best,” Gianni said. “ ‘Ragu' just means ‘sauce,' or here in Tuscany we also call it ‘
sugo
.' And my grandmother's was the best, too.”

He ducked slightly as Francesca picked up a piece of bread to throw at him. She put it on her plate and said, “My
nonna
's was better, and this is her recipe! She used to call the chopped carrot, onion, and celery that we started this sauce with—and that we use for so many dishes—the ‘holy trinity'!”

After sampling each of the
picis
and a serving of the tender veal redolent from the marinade and the aged balsamic vinegar used to deglaze the pans, with some garlicky chickpeas,
ceci,
as a side, Faith knew she couldn't eat another bite. Yet when Francesca brought out the limoncello granita she'd made, somehow Faith found room. The cool ice with its rich lemon liqueur taste went down perfectly. Another exceptional meal, and she'd have to remember the term “holy trinity” for what was called a mirepoix in most kitchens, from the French.

By the time they finished, it was quite late. Pleading a long day, Faith told the group she needed to head for bed, bidding them, “
Buona notte
.”

For bed, but first for whatever message Freddy had left in the pen.

Tom was not far behind.

“S
tupid, how could I be so stupid?” Tom said when they were alone in their room. “I should have thought of something hidden in the pen immediately.”

He had been a big Hardy Boys fan, reading his dad's old books, but there was no need for him to beat up on himself. She was the one who should have thought of it, given her more than passing acquaintance over the years with crime and subterfuge. She'd been over every page of the Graham Greene novel from Freddy's suitcase in vain, hoping for some clue, and here was the pen under their noses—or rather in Tom's pocket—all the time.

They stared at the slip of paper with Freddy's tiny distinctive handwriting. There was precious little written on it:

13/5 Teatro Verdi F.D.

“Thirteen five has to be a date. It's written the way they do here, so that's May thirteenth. Friday! This Friday!” Faith said.

“And the thirteenth on top of everything else,” Tom said. “But where is the theater? ‘
Teatro
'
is ‘theater,' I'm pretty sure. Look in your guidebook to Rome. Freddy was in Rome, so it makes sense the theater would be, too.”

Faith got the book.

“There's a Teatro Verde. It's for kids—plays, musicals. But Freddy clearly wrote an ‘i,' not an ‘e.' It has to be somewhere else. We need Google. Wait, what time is it in New York? I could call Hope.”

“Or I could go back downstairs and tell Gianni I want to look something up for tomorrow. I'm sure they haven't gone to bed yet.”

“Better,” Faith said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I'll be right back. You try to figure out the initials. The initials of the target,” Tom said grimly. “Freddy was trying to say ‘kill.' ”

Faith couldn't think of any targets with those initials. She didn't know the names of many notable Italian figures, especially political ones, save the president. Tom was back soon.

“Piece of cake. The Teatro Verdi is in Florence, right here in Tuscany, which has to be why Freddy wanted us to take the pen. He knew where we were headed. I wrote down the address, Via Giuseppe Verdi—no surprise there—but I couldn't read anything else on the site, since it was in Italian.”

We
have
been stupid, Faith said to herself. Now they had only a short time to figure out how to stop what could well be an assassination from occurring.

R
eaching over to kiss her husband good morning, Faith was surprised to find his side of the bed vacant. She must have been sleeping very soundly. She got up and knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer, and opening it, she saw the room was empty. She dressed quickly and headed downstairs to find him. He must have been very hungry. The Nashes and Olivia were up early, too, filling plates from the buffet. There had been no more talk about “proper breakfasts” from Constance after the first day, and judging by what she had piled on, she was now a convert to Italian
colazione
.

“Oh there you are,” Constance said. “I have a message from your husband, who literally bumped into me in the hall. A terrific hurry. He said to tell you he was off to Siena to that library thingy. Mario, more coffee.”

“The Piccolomini Library, you mean?”

“Yes, that's what I said. Milk, Mario.
Latte, latte
—milk.”

Faith poured herself a cup of coffee and went back upstairs. She wasn't hungry and she needed to think.

Last night before they had finally gotten to sleep, they'd decided to tell the Rossis everything that had happened and turn the matter over to the authorities. Tom had wanted to go back downstairs to the lounge, where the computer was, and try to find out more about the theater, a schedule for Friday, but they didn't want to wake anyone up.

She went back into the bathroom. His toothbrush was wet, so he'd gotten that far. He'd also obviously dressed—his jeans, a shirt, and his Nikes were gone. He must have decided to get up early and find out more about the theater. Or maybe he went to alert the Rossis? But without her? And then why go on to Siena?

Once more she went down the stairs and checked not only the room with the computer, but also all the other rooms on the ground floor, the terraces, and finally the pool—including the garden shed. There was no sign of him. She went back into the dining room. Everyone except Jack and Sky was up by now. Francesca, who would certainly not look so calm and happy had Tom told her what was going on, was bringing in fresh
cornetti
. Faith scarcely noticed the mound of rich flakey pastries.

“Did you see Tom before he left with Gianni?”

“No,” Francesca said. “I've just gotten back from my parents'. I stayed there last night with the
bambini
.”

“Gianni, too?”

“No, he was here of course.” She gave Faith a slight frown, and Faith was instantly sorry she hadn't watched what she said. Obviously the two would never be away from the guests at once.

“Stupid of me,” she apologized, thinking how often she'd been saying that lately. “I just wondered what time Tom left, which bus he caught.”

“Gianni was going to Firenze afterward to the Mercato Centrale to get the seafood for tonight. The best is from there. Once everyone is ready we will go to the small village market this morning to get the rest of what we need. You can try him on his cell, but it doesn't always work well.”

“No, that's fine. I can ask him later. I'll go get my camera. I know there will be many things I'll want to take pictures of today.”

Especially every single person enrolled at Cucina della Rossi.

She packed a bottle of water, the camera, and her journal in her bag, then sat in one of the chairs on the balcony. Another beautiful day. A breeze was setting the fields and groves of olive trees in motion. It had rained in the night and left the landscape sparkling. Totally idyllic.

Her husband had never left in the morning, or any other time, without kissing her good-bye.

C
HAPTER
10

T
here was one thing Faith could do right now. She could call her sister. Her cell was in the suitcase and she had been keeping it charged. Tom's was there, as she'd expected. It was too much to hope that he'd taken it with him. She sat back down, took out her journal, and turned to the back, where she'd written how to dial the States, punching in the numbers that would take her across the miles to Hope's cell.

Hope Sibley did not change her name when she married Quentin Lewis Jr., but did some years later when Quentin III came along. Faith had suggested she add something to her name like “Imperial Mother and Wife I,” but Hope had merely stuck “Sibley” in the middle. She was the exception to the rule that it was impossible for a woman to have it all—a lucrative, prestigious job, happy marriage, and motherhood—seeming to juggle the roles effortlessly, and admirably. The phrase “I don't know how she does it” was coined for Hope, but, in fact, Faith
did
know how. Money for a start, which bought a wonderful nanny, who stayed on as a housekeeper. Money also provided a spacious duplex apartment on Manhattan's West Side. And it also paid for romantic, albeit short, romantic getaways with hubby, who was equally dedicated to the pursuit of the next rung until the ladder stopped—where? Some kind of ultimate stratospheric corner office? Hope had been born with advanced organizational skills—sorting M&M's by color had been mere child's play on the way to a BlackBerry and smart phone, with Skype to check in with little Quentin as soon as he came home from school each day.

And on top of everything, it was impossible to hate her because she was an absolute darling.

“What's wrong?” Hope had answered the phone before the end of the first ring.

Since it was 3
A.M.
New York time, she knew Faith wasn't calling to chat about Chianti DOCs.

“It's complicated—and I'll explain when I get home—but I need you to do something for me as soon as you get into the office.”

Another nice thing about Hope was that she never wasted time with unnecessary questions.

“You have people at work who are fluent in Italian, right?”

“Several.”

“I need someone to call the box office of the Teatro Verdi on Via Giuseppe Verdi in Florence and buy me a ticket for whatever performances they have tomorrow, Friday, May thirteenth. There may be both a matinee and an evening concert. I don't have access to a schedule.”

“Just the one ticket?”

“Just one and in the front row or near the front of the first balcony, or the equivalent—someplace where I can see as much of the theater as possible. Have the ticket left at the box office under my name.” She didn't worry about being so specific. Hope would pull it off.

“I'll be going in at six, so it won't take long after that,” Hope said.

Faith had learned years ago when her sister first started working in this totally alternate universe that normal working hours didn't apply. Until she made partner, Hope slept most nights on a couch in her office. Finding an Italian speaker this early in the morning would not pose a problem.

“Thanks. And don't worry.”

“Whenever you say this, I know you're in trouble or will be soon. Are you sure I don't need to do anything else?”

“Yes! I almost forgot. I need the address of the British consulate in Florence. I have the American one.”

Faith didn't want to use the computer downstairs anymore. Maybe she was being paranoid—or maybe she was just being smart.

“Okay. That I can do immediately. And I'll get you the name of a contact. I'll call you in a few minutes.”

“Best to text everything from now on. The address and the performance or performances.”

They'd be leaving for the weekly market in the village soon, and she needed to go back downstairs. She didn't want her phone ringing. She didn't want to draw any attention to herself or what she was about to do whatsoever.

“Love you, Hope.”

“Love you, too—and be careful, please.”

“I'm always careful. Bye.”

Her sister ended the call, but not before Faith heard the heavy sigh traveling through cyberspace.

T
he village market presented the same alluring panoply of food, enticing to eye and mouth, as the Mercato Centrale, but was much smaller. Tables were spread out under an octagonal timbered roof held up by brickwork columns. Francesca told them that there had been a market on this spot for centuries and that parts of the current structure went back to the Middle Ages.

Faith liked the way some tables had set out a few simple offerings—radishes pulled an hour or so ago, spring onions, lettuces, jars of honey—while others were clearly outlets for larger producers that traveled to the various hill town markets. These offered samples of cheeses and salamis. The sellers' cries urging buyers to “
Mangia, mangia
” were hard to resist. All the purveyors were dressed in a layered assortment of aprons, tee shirts that proclaimed team favorites, caps, and bandannas.

She found herself walking with the Russos. She realized she knew very little about them other than where they lived, that Len was in “waste management,” Terry a
Twilight
fan—and they seemed unhappy. Normally she would have asked about their family, whether they had kids, and did they grow up in Livingston, New Jersey? Faith had dear friends who had. Maybe they knew them? She was always fascinated by people's stories and she would already have found out this sort of information. The week had been anything but normal, though. Asking now would take her mind off the Teatro Verdi—and Tom.

“Did you both grow up in Livingston?”

Terry shook her head. “Len is from Verona, not far from Livingston, and I was born in Philadelphia, but my parents moved to West Orange, New Jersey, when I was a baby. I'm a Jersey girl, though all these reality shows have been giving people the wrong idea about us.”

“I know you don't pump gas,” Faith said. “
And
I know why—it's against the law in New Jersey to pump your own gas, male or female.”

Terry laughed. “The first time I went to a gas station in another state—it was New York—I sat in the car waiting for a long time, thinking they were on the phone or something. Finally a guy came out and wanted to know if I was going to start paying rent. Then he saw the plates and said, ‘Oh, you're from Jersey.' He was nice about it and showed me how to fill the tank.”

“Oregon, too,” Len said. “Not that I've been there. In Jersey, the law was passed in the 1940s so people wouldn't blow themselves up, like smoke when they were pumping. Personally I like it. Nothing wrong with being waited on, and our gas isn't any more expensive than other states.”

“I like it, too, mainly because it's the only time
I
ever do get waited on,” Terry said.

Faith quickly interjected, “How about kids? We have two, a teen and a tween.”

The couple looked daggers at each other and there was a long pause before Terry answered. “Oh yes,
we
have kids. Three great ones. Len Junior works for Prudential, Jennifer got married last summer—she's a nurse at Saint Barnabas—and our baby, Frankie, has one more year of college. He's at Drew University. They all chipped in to give us this trip for our anniversary. Our thirtieth.”

“That's wonderful!” Faith said. “As I think my husband mentioned, it's our anniversary trip, too, although not the thirtieth yet. Congratulations!”

They were still looking at each other with undisguised antipathy, suggesting there wouldn't be a thirty-first.

“Everything was paid for, and anyway,” Terry said. “I didn't want to tell them—”

If he could have clapped a hand over his wife's mouth without drawing even more attention to what was an increasingly awkward situation, Faith was sure Len Russo would have. What he did do was interrupt.

“Your husband was in a big hurry this morning.”

“You saw him? When?” Suddenly Faith wasn't at all interested in the Russos' marital problems or whether she had Livingston friends in common with them.

“It was early. I was in the bathroom using the, well, I was in the bathroom, and I looked out the window. He was tearing up the path behind the house like there was no tomorrow.”

“Was he alone?” The market disappeared from her thoughts. Two people had seen Tom rushing off. Constance and now Len. To Siena? Or someplace connected to Friday the thirteenth, the date in Freddy's note.

“Didn't see anybody else, but I wasn't taking any pictures.”

Tom was heading up the path, which meant he was on his way here, to the village, most likely. Buses went not only to Siena but also to a number of other places—including Florence.

Len's phrase reminded Faith that she wanted to get photos of the class, surreptitiously. She left the Russos to their bickering.

How do spies do it? she wondered a few minutes later. She'd been able to get a shot of Sky and Jack, ducking quickly out from behind one of the columns. Olivia was seemingly intent on an array of red, turban-shaped tomatoes, and she sneaked one of her. But the others were proving difficult. Francesca solved the problem by calling, “Everyone, could you gather here by me and we'll decide what to cook tonight, now that you've had a chance to see what's here.”

Faith was able to snap the whole group from behind a table with baskets of potatoes, the soil still clinging to the skins—red, purple, yellow, shades of brown—before joining them. They'd added a pair of petite, attractive women to the group, who, hearing English, must have thought it was a tour the village was providing. No one dissuaded them, but realizing their mistake, they tried to leave with blushing apologies. Francesca insisted they stay and quickly gave them cards for Cucina della Rossi.

“Has anything caught your eye?” Francesca asked her students.

“The asparagus looks wonderful and we haven't done a dish with that yet,” Olivia said. “Maybe use it in a few ways?”

“I love that idea,” Sally said. “A celebration of
asparagi
!”

“We could use it in risotto for
Il Primo
—I want to do another one that you will make,” Francesca said. “And then it's so good roasted and wrapped with a slice of proscuitto as an antipasto.” She pointed to one of the sellers. “They make an excellent one. We'll get plenty. After that it will be seafood. Gianni will bring scampi for sure. He wants to do some of the shrimp on the grill, and that will be part of our antipasto, too. I won't know the other fish until he gets back. We can have some of the
asparagi
in a cheese sauce as a
contorni
. It will go with any kind of fish. Any other ideas? Remember, this will be the last night we cook together, so you must tell me what you want.”

Tomorrow night the Rossis had arranged a banquet for the class at a
ristorante
on Lago Trasimeno. Francesca had told Faith they wanted to make the last night special—no one working hard, just spending time together at what was one of the most beautiful spots in Italy before they all went their separate ways. She'd worked on the menu with their chef and the meal would be memorable, too. Faith thought it was a lovely idea. She pictured the end of the evening with farewells, some fonder than others, and promises to stay in touch, which no one would keep.

“How about grilling some asparagus along with eggplant and peppers?” Jack said. “I had something like that in a restaurant in Santa Monica and it was great, a little charred with a strong garlic flavor.”

One of the two women who'd inadvertently become part of the group said, “Did you see the thin stalks of wild asparagus? I only saw it on one table and you might want to try it.”

Her friend laughed. “
Stalking the Wild Asparagus,
Valerie? Remember that Euell Gibbons book from the 1960s?”

She explained to the group, “He was doing what was common practice in Italy—foraging in the wild for mushrooms, greens, things Americans thought were poisonous or weeds.”

“Come for dinner tonight,” Francesca said as they started to leave.

The one named Valerie answered, “That's so kind of you, but I'm afraid we're moving on to Siena. We like markets and only stayed to see this one. Our bus goes in an hour. Enjoy your meal. And thank you for the card. Something tells me you could be our next destination!”

Faith felt an instant kinship with them. They seemed to be having such a good time. The mention of Siena destroyed any vestige of calm for her, though. It didn't make sense. Tom couldn't possibly have gone off with everything that was going on.

Hattie was offering a menu suggestion. “Isn't there some kind of Italian asparagus dish with an egg?
Alla Bismarck,
although why in God's green acre they would name a tasty dish after a Prussian general here in Italy beats me.”