by Maddy Hunter
No matter where Gabriel Fox was, Sylvia Root was in Florence, and she and I were going to have a long talk in the morning. She knew more about Gabriel Fox than she was letting on, and I wanted to know what.
I turned the corner to the Via Santa Reparata, my stomach growling even louder than the scooters whizzing by in the street. I guess this was what happened when you survived on gelato and warm lemonade all day. At the far end of the block, I noticed a trio of blue cars parked cockeyed on the sidewalk and narrowed my eyes to make out the writing on the doors. P-O-L-I-Z-I-A. Police? What would the police be doing —
Unh-oh. With dread churning my stomach, I hurried down the sidewalk and banged through the front door of the hotel.
A half dozen policemen in crisp blue uniforms, white belts, and stylish berets wheeled around to face me when I charged into the lobby. They began shouting at me in strident Italian and shooing me away, but not before I caught a glimpse of the body lying at the bottom of the staircase.
I covered my mouth with my hands. Oh, my God. This was insane. This couldn’t be happening again! The staircase. The dead body. The head twisted at an unnatural angle. It was just like before!
Well…almost just like before. The only difference was, Sylvia Root wasn’t wearing any of my clothes.
“The police are treating Ms. Root’s death as an accident,” Duncan announced to us at breakfast the next morning, “but they’d still like to reserve the right to question each of you before we leave for Montecatini tomorrow morning.”
“Why do they need to question us if they’re deeming Sylvia’s death an accident?” Philip Blackmore asked.
“Because this is the second time in three days that someone has fallen down these stairs,” said Duncan. “I don’t think they’re comfortable with the coincidence.”
Coincidence? There was a serial murderer on the loose! And it was futile to question the hotel guests. The killer had already checked out. I’d told the investigating officers as much last night.
“I believe the man you want is Gabriel Fox,” I’d told them in the wee hours of the morning. “I’d like to tell you where to find him, but he conveniently disappeared in Pisa so he could beat the rap for Jeannette Bowles’s death. She’s the woman who was pushed off the Duomo yesterday. And if you ever get around to looking at the videotapes, you’ll see I’m right.”
Officer Agripino Piccione lowered a bushy eyebrow at me. “What you mean, ‘beat the rap’?”
A fellow officer whispered in his ear, which caused Officer Piccione’s consternation to dissolve into a snaggletoothed grin. “Ah. Si. One of you American idioms.”
I rolled my eyes with frustration. “He killed Jeannette Bowles. He probably killed the other tour member you found here two nights ago, Cassandra Trzebiatowski, and if you want my opinion, he killed Sylvia Root, too.”
Officer Piccione wasn’t amused. “You say he disappear in Pisa. If he in Pisa, how he push dis woman down duh stairs?”
“There are trains, you know! He could have taken the train back this afternoon and been here waiting for her all along. The man is a book editor. He’s probably read every Agatha Christie novel ever published. Things like this happen in Agatha Christie novels all the time! Haven’t you ever seen Hercule Poirot on A & E?” I regarded the blank expression on Piccione’s face. “Assuming you can pick up A & E over here.”
“So you tink you Hercule Poirot?” Piccione questioned.
“No, of course not.” For one thing, I had much less hair on my upper lip than he had. “But I’m telling you, while you’re here scratching notes, Fox is being clever like one and getting away. I mean, he could be in Timbuktu by now! Don’t you think you should issue an all points bulletin for him?” I regarded the blank expression on Piccione’s face. “Assuming you have all points bulletins over here.”
“Clever as Fox,” Piccione repeated. “Another American idiom?”
“An adage, actually. A proverb. Kind of like, smart as a whip?” I narrowed my gaze. “Dumb as a post?” I could tell by the look in his eye that adages were way over his head.
“You have reason why Fox want all dese women dead?” he asked.
Wasn’t that the way? I practically give him his killer on a silver platter, and he has to have a motive. “Okay, here’s the thing. I haven’t quite figured out his motive. But whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll make sense. At least, to him.”
Duncan’s voice drew me back to the present. “I can’t begin to express my regret over what happened to Ms. Root. These accidents are so out of the ordinary, I don’t know what to think. It’s almost as if we’re jinxed.”
The Stolees and Teigs pivoted around in their chairs to train accusing eyes at me. “What?” I mouthed at them. Lucille Rassmuson raised her hand.
“Are you going to cancel the rest of the tour if more dead bodies show up?”
Duncan looked taken aback. Lucille’s sensitivity always seemed to take people aback. “Did you…want me to cancel the tour?”
“How about we continue the tour, but you get the hotel to fix the damned runner on the stairs?” Dick Teig suggested. “Seems that might eliminate the problem entirely. Hell, I’ll fix the damn thing myself if you get me some rubber matting and a hammer.”
“I’ll help,” I heard Dick Stolee call out.
“Me too!” yelled Osmond Chesvig.
Aw, that was sweet. Iowans were so practical.
“I’ll speak to the management,” Duncan said, stunned. “In the meantime, please avoid the stairs. We’ve been given permission to use the freight elevator, which is around the corner to the left, for the rest of our stay, so I’d advise you to take advantage of the offer. And a reminder, this is our last full day in Florence, so plan to do the things you haven’t done yet. Visit the Uffizi to see Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, the Galleria dell’Accademia to see Michelangelo’s David, the Ponte Vecchio to check out the jewelry shops, or scout out that last-minute bargain at the leather market.”
I wondered if I should try my luck at Giorgio’s again and get that leather jacket.
I traced my twenty-nine-year-old eyebrow with an affectionate fingertip.
Nah.
“The results of your writing contest will be announced at eight o’clock tonight in the lobby, so those of you who’ve entered, please take note,” Duncan advised. “This is your night. And now I believe Mr. Blackmore would like the floor.” He nodded to Philip, who rose from his seat to address us.
“I can’t tell you how devastated I am by Sylvia’s death. Sylvia and I went back a long way, and even though I know she was often referred to as ‘the barracuda,’ I can say without equivocation that Sylvia Root was one of the most honest, most knowledgeable, most sensitive people in the industry, and I, for one, will miss her greatly. She had no family other than her Doberman, but I feel that all of us have become her family on this trip, so in light of that, I’m going to ask that we have a short memorial service for her tomorrow morning in one of the chapels of the Duomo. And if any of you had a care for Sylvia, I’d hope you’d see fit to attend. I’ll give you more details this evening.”
“What about Gabriel Fox?” Keely piped up. “How come he wasn’t on the bus coming back from Pisa yesterday? Where was he last night at dinner? What’s happened to him?”
Philip looked genuinely concerned. “It’s a mystery at the moment where Gabriel is, but I have every reason to believe he’ll rejoin us shortly. Knowing Gabriel’s reputation with the ladies, I expect he may have found a lovely signorina in Pisa who made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
That elicited a few chuckles and seemed to lighten the dark mood that had settled over us, but I, for one, knew better. If Gabriel Fox was anywhere, it was on a plane, heading out of the country. The one benefit was, with Gabriel gone, at least we didn’t have to worry about more people dying.
I hoped.
Chairs creaked and flatware rattled as we rose to our feet en masse. Mom gave me a troubled look as she joined the m
ob headed for the freight elevator. “And then there was one,” she said grimly.
“Excuse me?”
“Haven’t you noticed? I’m the only judge left. Sylvia’s dead. Gabriel’s missing. I don’t mind telling you, Emily, it makes me feel a little peculiar. I’m the one who’s going to have to decide someone’s future, but I don’t know if I’m qualified!”
I stared at her wide-eyed. She was the only judge left? Why did that make my legs feel suddenly gimpy? “I…I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I slipped notes under both Sylvia’s and Gabriel’s doors yesterday, saying I’d hand the manuscripts over to them midevening. I wrote down my room number and everything.”
“Your room number, or my room number?”
“My room number. I figured I’d be through in your room by then. But neither one of them stopped by. Now I know why. What a shame about the Root woman. I’m going to say a novena for her tonight.”
“Did you not go out to dinner with the group last night?”
“Your gramma told me about the plans when she got back from Pisa, but I was at a real critical point in my decision making, so I thought it was more important to finish up what I was doing than to eat. But I didn’t go hungry. I found a little package of airplane pretzels at the bottom of my fanny pack, so I was just fine. They were really tasty, too. Mustard flavor.”
Mom was the only judge left. Mom was the only judge left. Why did that seem so ominous? And looking at it from that perspective, I realized why.
What if the killer’s real marks were the judges rather than the contestants? Without judges, there would be no contest. No winner. No prize. Was someone so opposed to this contest that he or she would resort to murder to stop it?
Oh. My. God. Could I have been wrong about Gabriel? Could he be as much a victim as the women who’d died? WHY WAS THIS WHOLE THING SO FREAKING CONVOLUTED?
Well, one thing was for sure, if Mom was the only judge left, I was going to make darn sure she stayed alive. I’d probably shoot myself later for what I was about to suggest, but the ugly truth was, if anything happened to even one little hair on her head, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. “Okay, Mom, you need to start enjoying your vacation, so I tell you what. Go back to your room and grab what you need, then meet me at the lobby door in fifteen minutes. You’re going to see the sights of Florence with me today.”
“That’s sweet of you, Emily, but I think I’d better spend the day with your grandmother. She feels much safer when she’s under my supervision.”
“She has her own friends, Mom. George, and Alice, and the twins. She likes her independence. Let her do her own thing, and you can spend some quality time” — I forced the words out — “with me.” There. I said it. Desperate times really did call for desperate measures.
“But what about her hearing loss?” Mom objected, as I scooted her toward the line snaking toward the freight elevator. “She needs me to interpret for her!”
I waved her forward. “I think she’s been taking a new course at the senior center! Lip reading! Check your watch now! Fifteen minutes.”
I felt like a human dynamo. Processing information. Analyzing results. Implementing strategy. I felt empowered, invincible, a little whacked-out. Oh, God. Maybe I wasn’t a human dynamo. Maybe I was just a misguided tour escort suffering a really big nervous breakdown.
I checked my arms for hives.
Keely bumped into me head-on when I turned around. “Sorry,” she apologized, her voice a sob, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“No problem.” I took a step back, watching her pump air into a bubble that wilted suddenly like flaccid pasta. Either the gum was old, or something was bothering her. “Hey, are you all right?”
“No! This trip is turning into the biggest bomb. I sucked up to Sylvia Root, and she’s dead. Do you know how depressing that is? She told me if I won this contest, she’d represent me. Can you believe it? Keely Mack represented by Sylvia Root. Now I have to start from scratch again! Do you know how long the process of finding an agent takes? Freaking forever! I sucked up to Gabriel Fox, and he’s AWOL. A lot of help I’m going to get from him. I want to win this contest, dammit! But there’s no one of any importance left to suck up to!”
I could take issue with that on my mother’s behalf, but it was Keely. Why bother? “You could suck up to Philip Blackmore.”
“Yeah, right. Mr. Personable. He might sound friendly and everything, but you can forget about having a private conversation with him. He doesn’t have time for anyone except his elite little group.”
“Then maybe you should think about trying to get published the old-fashioned way.”
“How’s that? Pretend I’m a West Coast literary agent looking to place one of my aspiring writers — me — with a prestigious New York agency before I retire?”
“I was thinking more like — finishing your manuscript.”
She curled her lip at me in disgust. “You nonwriters are so out of it.”
“Nice hair!” I called after her as she headed for the elevator.
She flicked her hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah.”
But she’d left me with an intriguing little tidbit. Sylvia and Gabriel had been of more use to her alive than dead. I made a mental note of that and dropped her a notch in my list of possible suspects.
I found Nana sipping tea at a table by herself as I wended my way back through the room. I pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, noticing that the little white tufts of hair on the top of her head were so tortured and scraggly, she looked like she’d been run over by a power mower. “What are you doing all by yourself this morning?” I asked, trying not to stare.
“George and Osmond are outside takin’ pictures a trash cans. I guess Osmond’s family ran Windsor City Rubbish and Waste before they sold the business. Isn’t that somethin’?”
“So what’s on your agenda today?”
She gave me a hangdog look. “I’m havin’ a real bad hair day today, dear, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a mite grumpy.”
“Your hair?” I gave her the once-over, suppressing a wince. “What’s wrong with your hair?”
“Your mother’s wrong with my hair. She left the toilet paper hangin’ in the bathroom when she took her shower last night and soaked the whole roll clean through. I tried pullin’ it apart to help it dry, but it was that cheap one-ply stuff. Shredded like confetti. So I had to sleep bareheaded. Lookit me! This is what happens when you don’t have no cushion for your curls. I coulda used Kleenex, I suppose, but I woulda had to tape too many tissues together to get a continuous wrap. And that woulda been a problem because I didn’t have no Scotch tape. The closest thing I come to tape was Post-it notes.”
“Your hair doesn’t look that bad, Nana,” I lied, fluffing it here and there.
“You’re a wonderful granddaughter, dear, but a bad liar. I look like I been through a car wash without the car.”
I patted her hand. “Well, I have some news that’s going to cheer you up.”
“You’re sendin’ your mother home on the next plane?”
“Almost. I’m going to keep her under my wing today, so you and George can have the day, and your room, all to yourselves.”
“No kiddin’?”
“No kidding.”
She eyed me seriously. “You sure you wanna do this, Emily? It’s your mother, remember. You might not be able to last the whole day.”
“I’ll be okay. I’m tough. But, I have a really big favor to ask. Could you do some research on the Web for me? I’d like to know what kind of link Sylvia Root had with Gabriel Fox other than the obvious agent/editor relationship. She was involved in another line of work before she began agenting. I’d like to know what it was. You might be able to find magazine articles. Interviews. Industry profiles. Anything would be helpful.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, dear. I seen a bunch a cybercafés around. George will remember where they was.”
“And I don’t
know how relevant this is, but Gabriel mentioned that Jeannette Bowles was involved in a lawsuit some years ago that hadn’t gone well. Could you look into that? It might have nothing to do with the deaths, but I’m curious.”
“How soon you need the information?”
“As soon as possible?”
She pushed away from the table and stood up. “Hunh. I’m feelin’ less grumpy already. I’ll get right on it. The quicker we get done” — she gave her eyebrows a little waggle — “the sooner we get to come back to the room.” She bowed her head close to mine. “George says he’s got a surprise for me.”
Oh, God. I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Go easy on him today, okay? Replacement caps aren’t cheap, and Medicare doesn’t cover dental.”
“You bet.”
Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup.
I pulled my phone from the overflowing disorder in my shoulder bag and pressed it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Ti amo, bella.”
Warmth rippled through my body. “I love you, too,” I said breathlessly.
“I have bad news for you, darling. My contact in the department has been called away. Family emergency. So I won’t be able to supply you with any more information until I return to Switzerland. I’m sorry.”
Good thing I’d put Nana on Gabriel’s scent. It always paid to have a reliable backup. “That’s no problem. I’ll manage. But thanks for all your help. I do believe you’ve earned a reward for your efforts.” I spied Duncan in the hall talking to the front desk clerk. “I take requests.”
“An evening alone with you, bella. Champagne. Satin sheets. Candlelight. Massage oil.” His voice dipped lower. “My tongue. Your flesh.”