by Maddy Hunter
“I noticed.”
“In Gillian’s and Marla’s case, it’s because of the Irmas.”
“Excuse me?”
“The Irma Award. The highest honor you can receive in the romance industry. They both have nine at the moment, and they’re vying to be the first to reach ten, at which point they’ll be retired from competition and be inducted into the Romance Hall of Fame. But look at what they’ve become. The stress is eating them up. And this tour has pushed them over the edge. Philip was crazy to expect them to give up their writing secrets to the masses. You heard them yesterday. They don’t want new authors to come along and knock them off their million-dollar pedestals. Each wants to be top dog forever.”
I smoothed my hand over the grass, looking him square in the eye. “They must be relieved they don’t have to worry about Cassandra and Jeannette then.”
“We never should have begun this contest. But Philip —” Gabriel wagged his hand in frustration. “You can’t talk to Philip sometimes. Everything has to go his way, or no way at all.”
“You were one of the last people to see Jeannette alive,” I prodded. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“I’ll tell you exactly what happened. It became open season on Gabriel Fox! I haven’t been able to take a breath these last two days without some contest hopeful getting in my face. ‘Pick me. Pick me!’ They’ve even followed me into the restroom, for Christ’s sake.”
I wondered if he realized that was no big deal since most of the restrooms around here were unisex.
“Jeannette practically attacked me in the piazza yesterday, and when I excused myself to do some sightseeing, she decided to tag along with me. I thought I might shake her by threatening to climb to the top of the Duomo — I mean, that dress of hers was so tight, I didn’t think there was any way she could climb stairs, but wouldn’t you know? She was a hiker. She could have made that climb in a straitjacket and leg irons. And to add to the occasion, some mouthy redhead joined us. The two of them talked at me so much, I think I’ve gone deaf in both ears.”
“From your little speech on the bus this morning, it sounded to me as if you were quite taken with Jeannette.”
“Hell. Give me credit for having some scruples. The woman died. I’m not about to announce she was a bootlicker. No matter what she was, I still have to do the good PR.”
“So where were you when she died?”
He eyed me critically. “You ask that question as if you suspect I might have killed her. Just to ease your mind, I was nowhere around the woman when she died, and I told the same thing to the police. I wandered away while she and the redhead were locked in some kind of discussion about first-chapter endings, and I headed for the stairs at a run.”
I guess that clinched it. Everyone had been descending the stairs when Jeannette died. How convenient.
No, wait a minute. I suddenly remembered. Everyone except Fred. I still didn’t know where Fred had been…or what he’d seen.
“I might be a literary snob,” Gabriel confessed, “but I’m not a killer. Frankly, I think it might have been suicide. She’d been involved in some kind of lawsuit years ago, and from what she hinted, the result hadn’t gone well for her.”
“Did she say what kind of lawsuit?”
“Believe it or not, that was the one thing about herself that she didn’t elaborate on. Lucky me.” He boosted himself to his feet and brushed off his khakis. “Don’t look too hard for your phantom killer, Emily. I don’t think you’ll find one. On the other hand, should I show up dead, be sure and check out Sylvia’s alibi.”
I squinted up at him, blocking out the sun with my hand. “She doesn’t like you much, does she?”
“Major understatement. She hates the ground I walk on.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’d like to say because I’m literary, and she’s commercial, but I think it goes deeper than that. Sylvia Root has been uncivil to me since the first time we met. And to be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea why. But I never let it ruin my day. I can handle the Sylvias of the world.”
I bet he could.
Jackie showed up five minutes later, awaiting last-minute instructions, which I was happy to supply. “Something’s been up with Fred ever since he learned about the security cameras at the top of the Duomo. Something not quite right. So maybe you can follow him around and see if he does anything out of character.”
“You mean, like walk with erect posture and look people in the eye? You suppose I should just ask him?”
I stared at her, deadpan. “You’re not supposed to talk to him, Jack. You’re supposed to watch him. He’s not supposed to see you. No talking, just watching. Got it?”
She removed her tape recorder from the pocket of her shirt and said into the mike, “If you want to have fun on your holiday tour, AVOID THE ONE ESCORTED BY EMILY!”
I flashed her my most winning smile. “If you say one more word into that freaking tape recorder, I’ll snap it in half.”
Arching her eyebrows in a fit of pique, she shoved the gadget back into her pocket. “Have you by any chance been diagnosed with PMS recently?”
I continued with the plan. “I’ll follow Brandy Ann, Amanda, and Keely. If I’m lucky, they might hit some of the same stores.”
“What if they don’t like to shop?”
A woman not like to shop? “You’re kidding, right? Okay, you take off, and I’ll meet you back at the bus at four.” As she struck out along the path, I recalled Etienne’s last enigmatic words to me. “Hey, wait a minute! Do you have any idea what voray mange calzione means?”
“I don’t know French!” she called, backpedaling.
“It’s not French! It’s Italian!”
She erupted in hysterical laughter. “Sure it is! Jeez, you need language lessons. Okay, I think it means…” She paused in thought. “Someone wants to eat your shorts! Or maybe your socks.”
My socks? I hadn’t brought any socks with me. But I certainly didn’t want to discourage his attempts at fore-play.
I wondered how he’d feel about panty hose.
I loved tailing people.
I loved it because it was so easy. Especially when I was tailing women who indeed liked visiting all the local shops.
I followed Brandy Ann and Amanda down a wide street called the Via Santa Maria, and while they popped into linen shops, alabaster and marble shops, stationery shops, jewelry shops, clothing shops, shoe shops, and leather shops, I watched them from a safe distance on the opposite side of the street. They developed a pattern of spending an average of thirty minutes in each store, then moving on to the next one, except for the jewelry store, where they spent an hour and a half. I figured Amanda was probably looking for attractive new jewelry for her nostrils. Maybe a miniature Tower of Pisa. Or a small cathedral.
I bought gelato at every ice-cream place I passed and stood nibbling on it as I watched my marks. I decided my favorite flavor was frutti di bosco, and maybe not so much for the flavor as for the color, which was a deep raspberry/boysenberry pink. I remembered having an Easter dress that color once, when I was five.
I spotted other members of the tour in my travels. Philip and Marla looked to be having a heart-to-heart over glasses of wine at an outdoor café. I saw Keely peeking into the storefront window of a hair salon and checking her watch before heading through the door. I guess I wouldn’t have to worry about what she was doing for the rest of the afternoon. I noticed Sylvia Root and Gillian buying fruit from an outdoor vendor and wondered if Gillian’s was for eating or chucking at Marla.
I saw several blondes wearing Landmark Destination name tags and stopped to exchange friendly chitchat with them, but not once during the entire morning or afternoon did I catch sight of Nana, or George, or the twins, or any of my Windsor City group. Odd that I wouldn’t run into at least one of them. Oh, geesch. Could they have gone back to wait for the bus?
I shook my head. More than likely that’s where they were. They were
skipping the historic self-guided tour of Pisa in favor of being on time for the bus. I rolled my eyes. I had to hand it to them. At least they were consistent.
By 3:30 I was hot, tired, and with all the gelato I’d consumed, really thirsty, so I stopped at a restaurant with outdoor seating and a partial view of the Leaning Tower and ordered a tall glass of lemonade. My table was covered in white linen with a pottery bowl full of oranges and lemons as a centerpiece rather than your standard bottle of Chianti with a candle stuck in the neck. I inched off my one-band slides and flexed my toes while I waited for my order, disappointed that neither Brandy Ann nor Amanda had done anything criminal all day long, which made me wonder if the only time they reverted to criminal behavior was when there was a flight of stairs handy. I leaned in my chair to regard the sliver of tower visible in the distance and wondered how many stairs one had to climb to reach the top. A frosty sensation razored down my spine. Good thing it was closed to the public until next year.
My lemonade arrived in an exquisitely tooled highball glass with a slice of lemon gracing the rim. I chugged a mouthful before setting it back on the table with a frown. Nice glass. Warm liquid. No ice. Yup. The Italians really knew how to quench your thirst.
I scratched the soles of my feet with my bare toes, wondering what would happen if Jackie came up short with Fred. We couldn’t keep following everyone around. At some point people would notice, especially if Jackie got increasingly more creative with her disguises.
There were just too many questionable motives floating around among the Passion and Pasta crew for everyone to be as innocent as they’d led me to believe. Money. Fame. Ego. Validation. But I couldn’t figure out the logistics. Brandy Ann had both the opportunity and brawn to push Cassandra down the hotel stairs, but how could she have been involved with Jeannette’s death if she wasn’t on the gallery when the woman fell?
Amanda had opportunity to push Cassandra, too, but the same problem existed. She couldn’t be responsible for Jeannette’s death if she’d left the gallery before Jeannette fell.
Unless, of course, the videotapes proved otherwise.
I took a long draft of my iceless lemonade. Then there was Keely, who knew the caliber of Cassandra’s writing, who was probably miffed that Cassandra had ended her Romance Solutions subscription, who might have been jealous of Jeannette’s awards and threatened by her talent, and who wanted to be published more than she wanted to live. But Keely supposedly left the gallery before Jeannette plunged to her death, too. Or had she?
I shot up straight in my chair. Uff da! Had Fred seen Keely do something unspeakable on the gallery? Or Brandy Ann? Or Amanda? Or…or Gabriel? Is that why he was acting even more squirrelly than normal today? Why he seemed so frightened to be alone? Was he afraid Jeannette’s killer might try to shut him up?
But if that was the case, then what was the deal with his anxiety about the videotapes? If they actually showed someone pushing Jeannette off the gallery, then —
A sudden, unlikely thought struck me. Oh, my God. What if the videotapes showed Fred pushing Jeannette? But that was absurd! Fred wouldn’t hurt a fly. Physically, he seemed too small to muscle someone over the railing. Mentally, he seemed too timid. Then there was the question of motive, but I wouldn’t be given any insight into that until Etienne got back to me. Why was this getting so complicated? I took another swig of my lemonade to help myself think.
“Is this seat taken?”
Startled, I glanced up to find Duncan standing beside my table, appearing the polar opposite of me — fresh, crisp, and every bit as commanding as he’d been in the showdown at the baptistry. “Oh, hi! Sure.” I indicated the chair kitty-corner to me. “It has your name on it. But if you’re thirsty, I don’t recommend the lemonade, unless you have a thing for lukewarm beverages.”
He sat down, a broad smile dimpling his cheeks as he waved his hand toward my glass. “Italy has it all. Lavish cathedrals. Garish fountains. Leviathan sculptures. Gorgeous women. The only thing it lacks is…ice.” A soft, kindling light brightened the dark brown of his eyes. “And speaking of gorgeous women, I didn’t want you to think I hadn’t noticed.”
He lifted his very large, very bronzed hand to my head and gave my short curls a gentle tousle. “Donatella did well by you. I think you look” — his eyes trailed lazily from my hair to my mouth — “spectacular.”
OH, GOD! This couldn’t be sexual attraction I was feeling. Please tell me it wasn’t sexual attraction! I couldn’t be attracted to Duncan. I was already taken!
“I’m glad you like it.” I gulped down the rest of my lemonade in one long swallow.
“I like it very much,” he said in a voice that would have melted ice if there’d been any around. “I’m curious, Emily.” He lifted my left hand and brushed his thumb across my bare ring finger. “No wedding ring? How does a knockout like you avoid the inevitable trip to the altar?”
“I was married once,” I confessed, “but it didn’t work out.”
“You married the wrong man.”
“Um, you could say that.”
“What about now? Are you seeing anyone?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “A Swiss police inspector. He lives in Lucerne, but he’s on leave of absence at the moment.” I tapped my fingertips to my head. “Migraines. He was injured last month, so he’s…recuperating.”
“A serious injury?”
“Head wound.”
“Obviously not in the line of duty though.”
“He was on holiday.” I eyed him curiously. “How did you know that?”
“It’s hard to be felled by a criminal element where no criminal element exists. Didn’t your inspector tell you? There’s no crime in Switzerland.”
“That’s not true! There was a crime when I was there.” Unfortunately, we’d brought the criminal over with us, but why split hairs?
He smiled at me with his glaringly white teeth. “Do you see each other often?”
“Not often enough. Long-distance relationships are a problem that way.”
“You could try applying for a job at Landmark. I happen to know there’s a position opening up in Milan. Six-month minimum stay in the country. Competitive salary. Trains run frequently between Milan and Lucerne. You’d see your inspector more often, and if things didn’t work out with him” — with the lightest touch of his fingertip, he sketched a pattern on the back of my hand — “I’ll be moving to Milan in a few weeks, so I could offer you my services at…filling the void.”
I could feel my mouth work, but nothing was coming out. He wanted to fill the void? He’d spoken to me a handful of times, and he wanted to fill the void? Had something happened between the two of us in the last couple of days that I’d completely missed?
Duncan’s lips curved into a boyish grin. “I wouldn’t mind meeting your inspector, Emily.” He threw the words out like a challenge before leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Is he planning a visit while you’re in the country? I always like to size up the competition.”
“Competition? What are you competing for?”
“I thought that was obvious.” He drilled me with a look that sizzled like a lightning strike. “You.”
“ME? I’m not part of any competition. I’m taken!”
“No ring on your finger yet. You’re not off-limits until it’s official.”
“Yes, I am!”
“No, you’re not. I’m not usually this forward, but what can I say? You’re beautiful. Friendly. You’re always smiling. You don’t smoke. Do you know how refreshing it is to see a woman who doesn’t smoke over here? Old people love you. You have a good heart. My family would think you’re wonderful.” He lowered his eyes. “You have great legs.”
“My legs are taken.”
“I should probably warn you. The men in my family make up their minds rather quickly about the women they intend to marry. My mother and father dated exactly two days before he popped the question, and they were married in a week. My grandfather was
even faster. He carted my gramma off to the preacher on their first date. Lazarus men know their minds when it comes to women.”
I stared at him openmouthed for nearly ten seconds before I uttered the only thing I could possibly say at a time like this. “Have you run into any of my people today? The guy with the prosthetic leg who’s walking like a slug? The woman with Magic Marker for eyebrows? I haven’t seen any of them since we left the baptistry and frankly, I’m a little worried.”
His gaze was unwavering. “Is that how Midwesterners politely change the subject?”
I perked up. “Speaking of changing the subject, do you happen to know what the phrase voray mange calzione means?”
“Excuse me?”
I braced my forearm on the table and regarded him gravely. “Do you think there’s a chance it doesn’t mean ‘eat my socks’? Could it possibly be an idiom?”
“Say it again. Slowly.”
So I did, and when I finished, I watched his mouth become a provocative curve. “If I fill in the blanks and use a little literary license, I come up with, ‘I want to eat you for breakfast.’ ” His eyes grew warm, sooty. “I love the idea. Are you free tomorrow morning?”
“Thief! Stop! He has my pocketbook! Stop him!”
A sudden blur on the periphery of my vision became a young man pelting down the street with a purple shoulder bag stashed under his arm. Marla Michaels stood alone on the pavement, screaming and pointing at the retreating thief. “Somebody stop him! That pocketbook’s brand-new! There’s only one other like it in the world!”
“Oh, my God!” I leaped out of my chair. “A purse snatcher!” I eyed the barrier of potted plants around the restaurant. I eyed the disappearing thief. I eyed my one-band slides with the three-inch wedge heels. There was only one thing to do.
I turned to Duncan. “Should someone run after him?”
“No need,” he said, rising calmly to his feet. Keeping a bead on the thief, he plucked an orange from the fruit bowl, took calculated aim, and hurled the thing through the air at twice the speed of sound. Or light. Whichever was faster.