Pasta Imperfect

by Maddy Hunter

HOOCHIMAMA! “My calendar is open.”

  “So was mine until…early this morning. I might as well tell you, Emily. I was going to take the train to Montecatini to surprise you, but the department called about an hour ago to ask my assistance on a jewelry heist that took place last night at the local Bucherer store.”

  I remembered Bucherer. Last October I’d bought a watch there that had kept perfect time for all of one hour. “You have to go back to Lucerne?”

  “On the evening train. I’m sorry, darling. I was hoping that seeing you again might jog my memory with regard to what I should have done in Ireland, but —”

  “But you’re on leave! Can’t someone else handle the jewel heist?”

  “It’s my specialty, Emily. They need me. I’ve completed my duty to my family. I’ve had my fill of the casino. I haven’t suffered a headache in almost two weeks.” He paused. “I suspect it may be time for me to get back to work.”

  I realized I would have felt less disappointment if I’d never learned he was planning to surprise me. Damn. I heaved a sigh. “I miss you so much.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. It won’t always be like this. I promise you.”

  But his words felt hollow to me at that moment. I needed more than words. I needed him.

  Surly and frustrated, I shoved my phone back into my bag and headed for the lobby stairs. Duncan was just finishing up his conversation with the desk clerk and flagged me down as I approached him in the hall. “Can you spare me a minute before you head off?”

  I stopped and forced a smile to my lips. “A minute is about all I have.”

  “About yesterday, Emily, I apologize if I —”

  “No, no, I’m the one who should apologize — insisting that the police drag you out of bed to deal with Sylvia. If it’s not them, it’s me, right? You probably haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since we’ve been here.”

  He favored me with a smile that fit easily on his face. “You can drag me out of bed anytime.”

  Oh, no. I wasn’t going there.

  “Tell me, Em, how do you remain so calm and collected in the presence of a fresh corpse? Most people completely wig out. What’s your secret?”

  “Practice.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I shook my head. “I need to meet my mom, Duncan, so I really have to —”

  Pulling me close by my shoulder strap, he bent down and kissed my mouth lightly, quickly, like a thief. “I was referring to yesterday afternoon,” he whispered against my lips. “At the café in Pisa. I’m sorry if I seemed too brash, but I need to be honest with you.” And then he kissed me again, deeply, urgently, like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. “I meant every word.”

  Chapter 11

  What’s wrong with you?” Jackie asked outside my room minutes later.

  I exhaled a long, exasperated breath. “I’m swearing off men.”

  She gave me a narrow look before throwing her arms around me and crushing me to her chest. “You’re switching teams? That is so brave. So modern. So…” She stumbled backward and gaped at me, her eyes looking as if they might fly out of her head. “You don’t have your sights set on me, do you? Oh, jeez, Emily, I’m really flattered, but, I’m a happily married woman!”

  Speechless, I regarded her a full ten seconds before thrusting my room key in the lock and opening the door. “I have not switched teams! I like the team I’m on. I’m just…unhappy about the lineup. Too many minor league players wanting to come to the plate.”

  “Nice analogy,” she conceded, following behind me into the room. “And you never even played baseball.”

  “Can we forget men for the moment and talk about something serious? I think my mom may be in danger.”

  “Unh-oh. I saw Mrs. S. at breakfast and she told me about the toilet paper fiasco. Has she threatened to kill your mom? Trust me, once a jury gets a look at your grandmother’s hair, they’ll let her off the hook. It’s a clear case of justifiable homicide.”

  “Listen to me, Jack! Of the three people appointed to judge this romance contest, one is dead, one is missing, and one is left. My mom. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?”

  She regarded me smugly. “Of course, I know what that means. They’re going to need replacement judges.”

  “It means someone might be planning to kill my mother!”

  Jackie executed a major eye roll. “Didn’t I just say that? Your grandmother wants to kill her, Emily! Do you ever listen to anything I say? This is just like being married to you!”

  I sank into the armchair and scrubbed my face with my hands. “I thought I had it all worked out. I thought Gabriel killed Sylvia because of the animosity that existed between them. Some kind of vendetta or something.”

  Jackie sucked in her breath. “Vendetta? You think Gabriel is mafioso? But he doesn’t look Italian. I would have guessed WASP. Or Canadian.”

  “I thought he went missing because the videotapes would prove he pushed Jeannette to her death.”

  Another inhalation of breath. “He had a vendetta against Jeannette, too?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “You think he killed Cassandra?”

  “He might have…but I haven’t figured out why.”

  “What happened to murder due to plain, simple greed? Are you letting all the wannabes off the hook?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t figured that out either.”

  Jackie flopped onto the bed. “You want to tell me again what part of this you’ve worked out?”

  “Hey! This whole thing has gotten very complicated. If someone wants to sabotage the contest by knocking off the judges, why begin by killing two of the contestants? Why not just stick to the judges?”

  Jackie shrugged. “Maybe Cassandra and Jeannette were smoke screens. The killer wanted to cover up the real murder, so he started by pulling off a couple of fake ones.”

  “They weren’t fake, Jack. Two women died!”

  “But someone made them look like accidents, so they could have been fake!”

  Groaning, I threw my head back and stared at the yellowed paint on the ceiling. “None of this makes sense. The killer should be targeting either the contestants or the judges. Not both.”

  “Maybe the killer doesn’t have the same classification skills you have. Maybe he’s just lumping everyone together in a general pool and picking them off like fish in a barrel.”

  Eh! I hoped that wasn’t the case. But I knew one thing for sure. Whether Gabriel Fox turned out to be perpetrator or victim, I suspected he was the key to this whole mystery, and I wasn’t going to rest easily until someone found him.

  “So what’s today’s strategy?”

  “Today, we’re searching for Gabriel Fox. Dead or alive.”

  Jackie clapped her hands. “A manhunt! A manhunt’s gotta be more exciting than surveillance work. Right?”

  “And a little guard duty.”

  “Euw, more diversity. I like it. Who are we guarding?”

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, no!” She catapulted herself to her feet. “You can forget that. No way I’m spending the day with your mother. In case you’re unaware, Emily, SHE DOESN’T LIKE ME.”

  “She does so.”

  “Does not. Haven’t you ever noticed the way she looks at me — like I’m a hologram she can’t quite get into focus. And the only thing she ever says to me is, ‘What a lovely outfit you’re wearing.’ She doesn’t like me, and don’t you dare suggest she does. It’s taken a while, but I’ve become very sensitive to the vibes other people send my way. WHY DO YOU THINK I’VE HAD ALL THIS DAMN HORMONE THERAPY?”

  I heaved myself out of the armchair and stashed some extra film in my shoulder bag. “Mom likes you, Jack. She likes everyone. Plus, she forgives easily, is always kind, and never holds a grudge. Nana thinks she’s an alien.”

  Jackie folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “She doesn’t like me.”

  “She does so! Come on. Give her a chance. If you hang out with her a
little, I bet you’ll see loads of improvement with her conversation. She’s really quite chatty at home.”

  “No.” Jackie shook her head defiantly. “No, no, no.”

  “I bet that would be a lovely outfit on you,” Mom commented to Jackie as we stood outside a clothing store not far from the Piazza della Repubblica. Jackie bared her teeth, crossed her eyes, and slashed a finger across her throat at me. I was so proud of her. She and Mom were really starting to bond.

  We’d wowed Mom with a visit to the Duomo earlier, then crossed the street to tour the Museo dell’Opera dell Duomo, where we saw Lorenzo Ghiberti’s original baptistry door panels under glass, another Michelangelo Pietà that was assumed to be a self-portrait of the sculptor himself, and a dimly lit room that housed the sacred relics of prominent saints in ornately designed reliquaries. Mom really liked that room. She used up a whole roll of film trying to get a good shot of St. Joseph’s finger. She thought the pictures would make a good show-and-tell presentation at one of Nana’s Legion of Mary meetings.

  “A million lire,” Mom said as she studied the dress on the headless mannequin in the store window. “How much is that in real money?”

  “Five hundred dollars,” I said as I trained a casual look over my shoulder, on guard for anyone who might bear a likeness to Gabriel Fox. I tried to imagine what he’d look like in a hat. With sunglasses. Without his beard. But the only people who looked familiar to me were the Severid twins, who were waving at me from the other side of the street. I shouldn’t have been surprised they were still wearing my cigarette pants and bodysuits. One thing I’d learned on this trip: spandex wielded incredible power over dyed - in - the - wool Lutherans.

  “We have a favor to ask,” Britha announced as they joined us. “Would you mind telling us where you had your hair done, Emily? Barbro and I have decided we need a new look, don’t we, Barbro? We were thinking about something a little more flashy. Something that suits our new outfits a little better.”

  Barbro picked it up from there. “Something bold and brash — a style that roars. A cut that looks the same as yours!”

  The same as mine? It wasn’t enough they were wearing my clothes? Now, they wanted my hair? I liked to think of myself as a nice person, but come on! Britha’s request was a blatant violation of the unspoken code that a female should never copy a friend’s car, clothing, or hair. Of course, the twins had done nothing but copy each other all their lives, so maybe that explained their ignorance of the code.

  “Um…” I smiled. I hedged. I —

  “I know the name of the salon,” Mom said helpfully. “It’s called Donatella and it’s located by that lovely cathedral. Would you like me to help you find it?”

  I shot Mom an evil look.

  “I’ll show you where it is!” Jackie offered. “In fact, I can take you right to the front door!”

  My mouth fell open so far, my chin hit my knees.

  “No, no. We don’t want to take you away from what you’re doing,” Britha demurred. “If you just point us in the right direction, I’m sure we’ll be able to find it. We’re from Iowa, you know.”

  “Pleeeeease,” Jackie begged. “Please let me help you.” She extended an arm to each of them. “I absolutely insist. Maybe I’ll get a shampoo and style myself.”

  I threw Jackie a murderous look and mouthed the word “traitor.” She favored me with a delirious smile that bespoke the thrill of escape.

  “Would you mind if we made one small detour before the hairdresser though?” Britha asked Jackie. “We passed a little jewelry shop down one of these side streets that had some lovely earrings in the window. Clip - ons. Clip-ons are so hard to find these days. Would you mind stopping? We’d be quick.”

  “Maybe you should think about getting your ears pierced,” Jackie suggested as she pointed them toward the dome of the cathedral. “You’d have a much wider selection of earrings to choose from. I could do it for you! All we’d need is a sterile needle, gold studs, an ice cube, and some disinfectant.”

  I shook my head as Jackie herded Britha and Barbro across the street. She really shouldn’t get their hopes up about the ear piercing. The twins might already have a sewing needle and disinfectant, but this was Italy. They could forget about the ice cube.

  “They’re going to have such a nice time,” Mom commented as she watched the trio disappear into the crowd. “You seem to know your way around the city so well, Emily, maybe we should offer to meet up with the twins later this afternoon so you can show them around, too.”

  “Maybe we’ll run into them someplace.”

  “But if we don’t make arrangements now, how will we find them?”

  I sighed in defeat. “Shouldn’t be too hard. We look for the only two septuagenarians in Florence running around with my hair.”

  We strolled along some of the main streets of Florence — Mom, oohing and aahing over the shoes and handbags in the stores — me, darting my eyes back and forth so often that I was making myself dizzy. When we turned the corner onto one particularly narrow lane, we caught sight of tables and chairs set up café style on the sidewalk, and clusters of people standing in small conversational groups on both sides of the street, waving wineglasses in their hands.

  “Oh look,” Mom said, as we passed a shallow niche in a building that was replete with a counter, a tiered backdrop of bottled wine, and stemware in every available space. “It’s like the salad bar at Fareway, only with wine. Look at all those lovely bottles, Emily.” A hint of excitement crept into her voice. “How do you suppose they’re arranged?”

  I hurried her along before she could offer to alphabetize them.

  “Emily! Margaret!” a man’s voice beckoned. “Over here!”

  I nearly got whiplash trying to find the owner of the voice amid the clutch of midday tipplers, but the tanned arm rising over the dark heads in the crowd looked familiar, so we headed in that direction.

  “I’m glad I spotted you,” Philip Blackmore said in welcome, his hand wrapped around the stem of a full glass of red wine. “We were just about to offer a toast to Sylvia. Join us, would you?”

  Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones stood on either side of him, looking uncomfortable and subdued as they balanced their drinks in their hands. Duncan completed the quartet, giving me a quiet nod that spoke volumes.

  “Two glasses of Merlot for the ladies,” Philip instructed, handing Duncan a fistful of lire. While Duncan dutifully bought our drinks, Philip girded an arm around Mom’s shoulders, embracing her like a proud father. “I’m in your debt for all the work you’ve done to make our contest a success, Margaret. With our unfortunate turn of events, if not for you, we’d have no contest at all.”

  Color scorched Mom’s cheeks. “It was nothing.”

  “I love you Midwesterners. You’re so damned humble. How does it make you feel to know your decision will change someone’s life tonight?”

  “A little nervous actually.”

  She was nervous. I was a wreck. Maybe I should consider a drug stronger than wine.

  Duncan returned with our drinks and lingered casually beside me. Philip elevated his glass reverently. “To Sylvia,” he toasted.

  “To Sylvia,” we repeated, raising our glasses and clinking them in midair.

  “She was incomparable,” he declared, his voice gravelly with nostalgia. “The industry will shine far less brightly because of her absence.”

  While Gillian and Marla fought off tears, Philip Blackmore knocked back his entire glass of wine in one long gulp. “I think I’ll have another,” he said, spinning around and heading back toward the bar, his harness of bottled water swinging from his shoulder like a scuba tank.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone.” Gillian dashed tears from her cheeks. “Over the last few months she’d become one of my dearest friends. She was warm, witty, honest. She negotiated the most lucrative contract of my career. Three books. Twenty-city author tour. Four million dollars.”

  “Four million dollars!” Marl
a’s glass slipped from her hand and shattered at her feet, spraying wine over her flowered muumuu like a deadly red pesticide. “Hightower offered you an advance of four million? They only offered me three. The shysters!”

  Gillian took a long sip of wine before arching one superior eyebrow. “I guess that proves which one of us is more highly regarded in the writing world.”

  Marla shook wine from her hemline as she stepped away from the broken glass on the sidewalk. “The only thing it proves is that Sylvia didn’t do enough by me to earn her f-ing 10 percent!”

  Gillian inhaled a sharp breath. “Sylvia only charged you 10? She charged me 15! She was screwing me out of another 5 percent? The shyster!”

  Mom looked happily from one diva to the other. “Maybe if you did the math, it’d work out that advance-wise and percentage-wise, you were both earning the same thing.”

  That was so like something Nana would say. I guess there was no denying genetics.

  Gillian looked at Marla. Marla looked at Gillian. They both looked at Duncan. “Do you have a calculator?” they asked in unison.

  He held his hands up defensively. “The only thing I have on me is my phone.”

  “I propose another toast,” Philip bellowed as he returned with another full glass of wine. “This one is for Margaret.” He raised his glass. “May your decision provide us with the next rising star in the romance world.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, touching my glass to his. Marla and Gillian glared as he downed his second glass of wine.

  “So how many millions are you going to pay the next rising star?” Marla sniped at him, angry fists poised on her hips. “More than four? Sylvia told me I was your highest-paid author. Funny how she forgot to mention that the cowboy queen was getting more!”

  “I want my money back!” Gillian demanded. “Sylvia’s dead. That 15 percent belongs to me… and I want it right now!”

  Philip eyed each woman blandly before shoving his empty glass at Duncan. “Be a good chap and refill that for me, would you?”

  Hmm. I wondered if Hightower had ever published a book on the dangers of binge drinking.