A Villa in Sicily: Orange Groves and Vengeance

by Fiona Grace

  That made her feel a little better. “See? I told you. If I were you, I’d stop wasting time looking at me and Rafael’s family and look at that neighbor. Ugo. He’s a menace, and if he hasn’t already killed someone, he will, soon.”

  “Ugo . . .” He burst out laughing. “Ugo Telemaco? He’s just a crazy old recluse.”

  “But he has a gun. And he was in the grove at the time. I saw him.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, he was wearing polka dots at the time. That was why I went down there, the second time. G told me that he wore strange clothes like that, so I decided to have a look myself. And when I went to check on it, he pulled out a gun on me!”

  The detective seemed to be trying to keep a straight face, but then a small smile crept onto his lips. “I’d say that serves you right.”

  “It’s not funny! He nearly killed Nick!”

  He looked over at Nick, who looked sullen, upset that he hadn’t had dinner yet. He stroked his jaw, then wrote something in the pad and snapped it closed. “All right. I’ll be looking into this, interviewing more people. But if you do have anything you’d like to tell me about Rafael Piccolo, I’m all ears.”

  She’d wanted to. She’d wanted to tell him everything that she’d seen, and about the “Italian Problem.” But now, she felt like anything she told him would only incriminate her, more. He seemed dead set on the fact that she was involved.

  So she simply nodded and said, “Thank for coming by.”

  When he left, she looked at Nick, who mewled softly, wanting his apple. “I suppose the only way I’m going to prove myself innocent is if I can prove Rafael innocent as well,” she said, scooping him into her arms. “But fat chance of ever doing that, considering there are all those mobsters around, not to mention, the police are watching.”

  The only problem was, what if Rafael Piccolo wasn’t innocent?

  Grabbing her things, she went outside, locked the door to her clinic, and headed toward Piazza Tre, hoping no mafia men lurked in the shadows, waiting for her. Even though her mind wasn’t on it in the least, she had renovations to get to.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I hate you,” Audrey breathed, shining her light up at the living room wall.

  This wall was even worse than the first one, and she’d just spent the better part of the week filling all the divots in it so she could plaster it over and have a nice, smooth surface to paint. But the second wall looked like an archer had been using it for target practice. That wasn’t an exaggeration.

  In the background, Van Morrison crooned from her iPhone about sailing into the Mystic. She balled the ugly flowered wallpaper, tossed it in the trash heap, and wished she could sail away, leaving this all behind, while little gnomes fixed everything for her. That would be nice.

  That’s what lucky Nessa, across the street, had. She’d yet to see Nessa even break a fingernail.

  But there’s something to be said about doing it all on your own! she told herself, echoing something her father, the contractor, used to say. It feels good to get your hands dirty.

  She looked at her hands. They were very, very dirty. And there was no end in sight.

  Once I’m done with this wall, only two more to go, she thought bitterly, grabbing the tub of spackle and her tools.

  She’d thought she was lucky, getting this massive house, one of the nicest dollar-homes in Mussomeli. She had an idea of how it was going to look—pale blue, with wainscotting and some dainty Baroque-period furniture she’d seen in an antique store on Barcellona. But the one thing she hadn’t thought of was how much more work it would be to get to that point. The kitchen and rest of the lowest level had been easy, because they were small. But this room was so big, like a ballroom. It felt like this living room was never going to be done.

  Mason said he’d help me.

  She took a sip from her glass of wine, then slopped a little on the first divot in the very bottom corner and sighed, preparing for a long, long night. No, no, no. Don’t even think of it.

  As she smoothed it on, getting into a little groove, she felt better. All things were better with a little wine and some Van Morrison.

  Suddenly, she heard a loud bang outside, then screaming.

  Nessa.

  She jumped to her knees and went to the large picture window, then pushed open the shutters to find the camera crews. Nessa was wearing a robe, her wet hair up in a towel turban, and screaming at two very remorseful-looking men quickly packed up their gear. “I told you seven A.M!” she growled. “Not P.M!”

  One of the men, a bald, overweight man in jeans and a polo who Audrey was sure she’d seen before, grabbed his camera and threw it in the open back doors of the van.

  “Let me have that!” She screamed, reaching for it. She grabbed the camera and yanked it toward her, all the while punching numbers into her phone, one-handed. “I’m calling my agent. The last thing I need is videos of me, indisposed, showing up online. If they do, I’m going to come for your head!”

  The man started to explain himself, but she cut him off with a death glare.

  “I don’t care! I wasn’t expecting you! I—” She cut off as someone must’ve answered the phone, because she said, “Lon. Get control of these barbarian camera crews! I didn’t know they were coming, and I think they filmed me when I wasn’t expecting it!”

  Welcome to my world, Audrey thought, closing the shutters before Nessa could catch sight of her and focus her laser eyes on her.

  Then she turned around and smiled. Nick was there, excitedly playing with an apple core, trying to get the last bits of flesh from it. The room would be lovely and light when she finished. And best of all, she didn’t have any camera crews following her every move.

  She started to smile, until she remembered the police, following her every move. If they were doing it to Rafael, Dinardo would probably be following her, soon, too. After all, they were supposedly, “in it together.”

  But eventually, they’d find out she had nothing to do with it, right?

  She wasn’t sure. But she sure didn’t want to go back to the Tivoli estate, with all those mobsters.

  Which reminded her. She hadn’t asked him the question about whether he’d heard the gunshots.

  Not that it mattered. It was clear he’d lied about a lot of things. He’d probably only lie to her about that, too. What she needed to do was stay clear of Rafael Piccolo, let the police do their job, and eventually allow them to clear her name.

  Well, I have plenty of work cut out for me, here, she thought, gazing up at the massive, ancient wood-and-iron chandelier above her. It was more cobwebs than anything else and would need to come down and be refinished. Later.

  “Knock knock,” a voice called from outside. “Boston? You there?”

  Mason.

  Her heart did a little flip in her chest.

  She called, “Yeah. Come in. I’m up here. In the living room.”

  The door swung open and Polpetto appeared, rushing as fast as his gangly body could muster on the slippery tile. He bounded up the stairs to Audrey and licked her face. “Okay, boy. Hi, there. I missed you, too.” She cupped his giant face in her hands and gave him a kiss. As she did, Nick started to hiss. “Oh, stop it. I don’t have time for this.”

  By then, Mason was climbing the three short steps into the living room. He looked around, hands casually in the pockets of his jeans, nodding his approval. “Getting there.”

  She snorted. “Right. At this rate, it’ll be done by the time I’m in dentures.”

  “Told you I’d help.”

  “You’ve helped me too much. I feel terrible. Free vet exams for Polpetto for life doesn’t even begin to compare,” she said, draining her glass. “Wine?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  She went down to the kitchen, where she found a slice of pie, waiting for her. “What’s that?”

  “Pecan pie. Had a hankering for it.”

  “Thanks, that’s mighty kind of you,” she re
plied in her best Southern drawl. She got another glass down and poured them each some wine.

  He took his. “What do we toast to?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t think. It’s been one of those days.”

  “That bad? So . . . let me guess. They haven’t figured out who killed that guy, and so they’re still up your butt?”

  “Bingo. You’re good. How did you know?”

  He shrugged. “This actually isn’t the first murder you’ve been accused of, remember?” He took a gulp of wine and swallowed. “Not to mention, I saw a police car going down the street while I was walking here. They were going really slow, looking up at your place.”

  “Really?” She went to the window and looked out. It was dark except for a single streetlight, across the Piazza. No police officers. No mafia men, either. All was quiet. “Well, they’re gone now.”

  Mason sat down at the bistro table in her kitchen. “So what’s the deal? And why do they still think you did it, instead of that possible mafia guy that owns the grove? I think he’s a little bit of a safer bet.” He raised his thumb and forefinger up, apart an inch. “Did you find out anything else about him?”

  She nodded. “It’s so weird. I thought he’d summoned me there, so I went to talk to him. And then it turns out he hadn’t. But while I was there, I heard him talking to a bunch of men in suits, and it was really creepy. I could’ve sworn I heard the theme from The Godfather, playing in the back, as they talked. They were speaking in Italian but I’m pretty sure they said something about a problem that they got rid of. The dead guy.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I sure as heck hope you got out of there, as soon as you could.”

  She winced. “Well, I kind of . . . fell into their garden.”

  He winced in response. “And they noticed?”

  She nodded. “But then he was really nice. He brought me over, patched me up. Offered me something to drink. He was very hospitable.”

  Now, a new expression appeared on Mason’s face. It was part disgust, part concern, and a little bit of pride mixed in there. “He was, was he? And you took him up on it?”

  “Well, only long enough to be friendly. Then I got out of there, as quickly as I could.”

  “Smart.” He leaned back in his chair. “Just because he doesn’t look like Marlon Brando doesn’t mean he’s all rainbows and sunshine, girl. You’ve got to—”

  There was a sudden knock on the door. She exchanged a look with Mason, hoping it wasn’t G. Like I need my life to be any more complicated right now.

  She went over and pulled the door open. No, it wasn’t G.

  It was worse.

  It was Rafael.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Rafael Piccolo was standing there, in his dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, smiling at her. “Buona sera, Dr. Smart,” he said in a low voice.

  “Mr. Piccolo!” she said in shock, sensing Mason stiffening behind her. “What are you . . . I didn’t realize you knew where I lived.”

  He shrugged. “I asked around. Are you very busy? I am sorry to bother you so late.”

  “Oh, well—”

  Mason stood up and tweaked her shoulder. “Who’s this?”

  “Uh, this is a . . . friend,” she said. “Rafael, Mason. Mason, Rafael. Mason was just leaving.”

  Mason crossed his arms. “No, actually, I was—”

  She glared at him and mouthed, “Leave,” her eyeballs shifting toward the door.

  “But—”

  “Please? I’ll call you later.”

  He studied her for a long time before relenting.

  “Apparently, I was just leaving,” he muttered. “See you later, Boston.”

  Mason stood several inches taller than Rafael, a fact made obvious when he brushed past Rafael in the doorway, eyeing him with unblinking suspicion.

  Ridiculous, but maybe that was what he thought. He got similarly defensive and started acting oddly when G was around, too. But there was absolutely no reason to be. Hadn’t she just got done telling Mason she was pretty sure he was mafia? Like she’d ever be interested in that.

  But then another thought came to her mind. Maybe he was just trying to protect her from the mafia guy.

  Oh, that made more sense.

  It was too late, though, because a second later, she was alone, with Rafael at her front door, watching Mason walk away from her.

  Was he upset at her? He wouldn’t admit it, but probably. “Wait—Mason . . .” she started.

  He didn’t turn around. She fought the urge to run after him. That would probably only make things worse. Besides, she was exhausted. She couldn’t deal with one man, much less two.

  Rafael smiled after Mason. “Friend of yours?”

  She nodded, remembering what she’d promised herself—that she wouldn’t go associating with any potential mob bosses. Otherwise, it’d only make the police more suspicious. She peered out at the dark street, but only saw Mason, rounding the corner and heading out of sight. “You surprised me. Is there something I can help you with?”

  He reached down and lifted a large basket that she hadn’t noticed, until now. It was filled with oranges. “I felt terrible about you hurting yourself today, so I came by to offer you this and see how you are?”

  “Oh, that’s very nice.” She took the basket and looked over her shoulder at her meager place. It was nothing like the gorgeous mansion Rafael was used to. I should invite him in, now, but do I really want to be alone with him? “I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They stood there, awkwardly, for a moment. He didn’t make any movement that suggested he was going to retreat. Clearly, he wanted to be invited in.

  “Um, well—I’d invite you in, but renovations have my place in a shambles righ—”

  “That’s fine, cara. I’ve seen worse.” He took a step forward so that she had no choice but to step aside, letting him through. When he stepped into the kitchen, he looked around. “Ah, a citrus lover. Lemons! I love it!”

  She smiled, then quickly scuttled toward the bistro table to take the empty wine glasses from her previous visitor. The basket of oranges was so large that it dwarfed the small, two-person tile-topped table. She motioned for him to sit, and he did so, sliding into a chair with grace, crossing his one leg atop the other so that the ankle rested on his knee, making himself at home. He was wearing loafers with no socks, a look that Audrey had never liked. She averted her eyes from it and grabbed the bottle of wine. “Can I get you—”

  “No. No, I can’t really stay.”

  Could’ve fooled me, she thought. It was a good thing he declined, because the bottle was nearly empty. She set it in the sink and turned to him. “Was there something else I could help you with?”

  He shifted in his seat. She half-expected him to reach into a pocket and pull out a small pistol. But instead, he said, “I must apologize for how rude my family was to you.”

  Oh, was that it? “Not a problem. I’m from Boston. I’m used to much ruder people than that. Trust me.”

  He chuckled. “Ah. They can be intimidating to most people. I’m glad to hear you weren’t intimidated.”

  She wouldn’t go that far. She clearly remembered being so intimidated when the quartet of them had stared over her in the garden that she’d nearly wet herself. But it was all water under the bridge. She hoped. She’d survived. So far.

  “All is good,” she said with a smile.

  More awkward silence. It seemed as though he was fishing for something, but she didn’t know what, until he said, “That was some fall you took. I hope you are all right?”

  She nodded.

  “What . . . again . . . what were you doing up there?”

  Oh, so that was what he was after. “I told you. I thought I’d been invited. I was just trying to find a way in.”

  He nodded slowly, as if it made perfect sense. Which, of course, it didn’t. It was a patent lie, but it seemed like Rafael Piccolo w
as absolutely fine, dancing around the truth. He’d lied to her before. He looked down at the ground, pensively, and said, “That’s right. That’s right.”

  Audrey snorted. She’d never liked lying, and from the beginning of this conversation, something inside her had begun to bubble, like a volcano, getting ready to blow its top off. Finally, she exploded. “No, it’s not right.”

  His eyes snapped to hers. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. And you know why I was there. I was listening. And my Italian may not be all that great, but I heard what you were saying.”

  Both eyebrows shot up, wrinkling his forehead. “What was I saying?”

  “You were talking about an Italian Problem. And a war. And that man from the mafia. You knew him,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “You know him, because you and your family are part of the mafia. You lied to me. Admit it.”

  Her heart stopped as he stared at her, unblinking. She thought for sure that this would be the moment where he pulled out his gun and sent her to sleep with the fishes. But instead, he chuckled. “Well, you come right out and say it, don’t you?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” she pressed.

  He let out a sigh of exasperation. “Yes. I suppose it is true. Though no one is usually that direct about it with me.”

  She blinked. So there it was. Her suspicions confirmed. Suddenly, she really wished she hadn’t asked Mason to leave. Was this one of those, I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, things? “I did ask you before, quite directly, and you said you weren’t. But you were lying."

  Laughing, he said, “That’s why I like you. You’re the only one. You don’t like to play games. You go after what you want.”

  She rolled her eyes, unimpressed by the flattery. “Is it true? Are you mafia?”