by Maddy Hunter
Nana tugged on the seam of my top and bent her head close to me. “He’s got two eyes, dear, but the patch is the surprise I was tellin’ you about. The barbarian stuff wasn’t workin’ out real good, so he thought a some other romantic hero he could be.”
I gave him a critical look. “A World War II vet with a lazy eye?”
“A pirate, Emily. And it worked out so good, he’s decided to stay in character. He got some real nice bargains on leather eye patches at the open-air market. In seven designer colors.”
“All right!” I heard Mom concede from the lobby. “Have it your way! But I still think it would work better if you were in alphabetical order.”
“Get on with it, Margaret!” Dick Stolee yelled as he focused his camcorder on her. I herded Nana and George closer to the group. Mom snapped her paper in front of her again.
“Very well then. The winner of the Passion and Pasta romantic book contest is…contestant number twenty-four!”
Heads spun every which way. People looked confused. Befuddled. From her perch on the sofa, Keely popped a bubble and shouted, “No one ever told us what our contestant numbers were. Don’t you have a list that matches names with entry numbers?”
Groans. Grumbling. Impatient sighs.
Mom snapped her fingers and looked suddenly enlightened as she slipped her hand into her other pocket and extracted a second piece of paper. “Okay, I have it now. The winner of the Passion and Pasta contest is…”
The crowd leaned forward. Brandy Ann pinched her eyes shut. Amanda crossed her fingers in the air. Keely cracked her gum. Fred clutched the chin straps of his hat. Dick Teig burped.
“…Jackie Thum!”
Chapter 13
A piercing shriek ripped through the lobby as my miniskirted ex-husband leaped to her feet. “I won! Oh, my God! I won! I’m an author! I’m going to be famous! I’m going to be rich!” She hopped giddily up and down, then bent down to yank Britha and Barbro off the floor to hop with her.
“Well, would you lookit that,” said Nana, staring at the trio. “You have any notion she entered that contest?”
I shook my head in slow motion, too stunned for words.
“That Jackie’s sure got a lot a talent,” Nana philosophized. “Maybe you shoulda stayed married to her.”
A smattering of applause trickled through the room as Jackie curtsied and bowed. “Jackie Thum,” she burbled, wishboning her arms in victory. “Romance author! But tell me honestly. Do you think I should have a pen name? Something more literary? What about Jackie with a ‘qu’ instead of a ‘k’?”
“What about Jackie O?” Grace Stolee suggested.
Spirited applause from the Iowa contingent for Grace’s suggestion.
“I kinda like Yora Fink,” Keely offered, sneering.
Scattered applause. A few hisses.
“I knew some Finks in Minnesota,” Nana whispered to me. “Nice Scandinavian family. You s’pose they’re any relation?”
I wandered over to Jackie. As she settled the twins back onto the floor, I muttered in an undertone, “I thought you said you didn’t read romance novels.”
She shrugged prettily. “I lied.”
“So what about your plans to become a tour guide escort? That’s why you’re on this trip! That’s why you bought the little minirecorder. That’s what you want to become!”
She retrieved her minirecorder from her shoulder bag and slapped it into my hand. “Here. You can have this. I won’t be needing it anymore. No offense, Emily, but your job is a drag. I don’t think I’d last more than a day. And let’s be honest. Don’t you think I’m better suited to stardom than servitude?”
I gave my eyes a major roll as Duncan took the floor again. “Congratulations to Jackie on her win,” he said in a mellow voice. “I’m sure we’ll all look forward to seeing her name in print.”
Considering the disappointed scowls on most of the faces in the room, I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.
“How about teasing us a little with the book’s plot,” he coaxed.
Jackie gnawed on her lower lip for a moment. “Umm, okay. It’s the story of a small-town woman’s desperate search to find love again after her husband dumps her for another man in the cutthroat world of Broadway theater. Kinda like Midnight Cowboy meets A Chorus Line.”
I hung my head and covered my eyes. Oh, God.
“Sounds as though it has best seller written all over it. Good luck with your new career.” He took a deep breath, a pained look creeping into his rugged features. “Our next order of business is one that I regret having to share with you.” His voice dropped an octave. “I’m sorry to report that Philip Blackmore was involved in a freak accident this afternoon. On his way to lunch, he apparently lost his balance and fell onto the embankment near the Ponte Vecchio. I wish I could tell you that this particular story has a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Philip Blackmore died from his injuries at approximately one o’clock this afternoon.”
Gasps. Cries. Shocked whispers.
“Marla and Gillian were with him, and they’re fine,” he continued, “but they were so traumatized, they’re being held for observation at the local hospital.”
Silence overtook shock. Alarm filled eyes. Uneasiness weighted shoulders. People looked at Duncan and at each other, fearful and wary.
“This is too weird for words,” Keely called out. “Passion and Pasta Tour my ass. It’s more like the Passion and Perish Tour. What about the lectures we were promised? The insider tips from the experts? The chance to talk one-on-one with people who could get us published? The only thing you’ve been consistent about delivering so far are dead bodies!”
“Yeah,” Amanda agreed. “This tour is bogus. I want a full refund!”
“I want a refund, and I want to go home!” Brandy Ann chimed in, starting a chain reaction that boiled over into shouts, snarls, and verbal chaos. I took a step back from the crowd. Whoa! I was sure glad I wasn’t in charge right now. This was scary. I watched Duncan very carefully to see how he’d handle the situation.
He cocked his head as if listening to something, snatched his cell phone from its holster, and pressed it to his ear. Ah, yes. The beauty of the mobile phone — allowing you the opportunity to be interrupted at the most inconvenient times of your life.
He said something into the phone, then glanced in my direction, motioning to someone behind me. I turned around.
There was no one behind me.
Unh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this. I looked back to find him gesturing to me more furiously. “It’s the police!” he shouted above the din. “You need to take over! I can’t hear what the guy is saying!”
WAS HE NUTS? I didn’t know how to control an angry mob! But that did give me an idea. I pressed the record lever of Jackie’s tape recorder. “Memo to Mr. Erickson: It might be wise to include a section on mob control in the next printing of the official Escort’s Manual.” Hey, this was a pretty nifty little gadget!
The noise level rose to near deafening. Duncan shouted for calm, but when everyone ignored him, it reminded me that I did know something about mob control. I mean, I babysat my five nephews on a regular basis. I knew a lot!
Suddenly empowered, I let fly a shrill teakettle whistle that had people cupping their hands over their ears to prevent their eardrums from popping. I might not have Nana’s expertise at Tae Kwon Do, but my whistle was so devastating, I could probably register it as a deadly weapon.
As I assumed the reins of command, Duncan retreated to the front desk area to resume his conversation with the Florence police. “Okay,” I addressed the crowd when they removed their hands from their ears. “We need to take a vote.”
That’s all it took for Osmond Chelsvig to pop up with his new camcorder and begin to record the proceedings.
“I need a show of hands. How many people would like to continue the tour despite what’s happened?”
Every member of the Iowa contingent shot a hand into the air, which wasn’t surprising
. They were so accustomed to people dying on tour that I suspected it didn’t faze them anymore. “Twelve votes to continue. And how many people would like to throw in the towel and go home?”
Everyone else’s hand shot upward. I sighed. “It looks like the majority of you would like to go home.”
“You didn’t ask for abstentions,” Osmond said from behind his camera.
I directed a long, narrow look into his lens. “Are there any abstentions?” I asked stiffly.
“I abstain!” Jackie waved her arm over her head. “I don’t know if I’d be better off continuing the tour or flying home early to finish my book. How long do you think it’ll take me to finish? Eh! What if I can’t complete the manuscript on time? Do you think they’ll give me an extension? What if I can’t handle the pressure? Oh, God. What have I done? What was I thinking? I HATE DEADLINES!”
“I think there’s been bad karma on this tour ever since it began!” Fred jumped in. “Fires. Dead bodies. Who’s gonna be next? I don’t want to wait around to find out!”
I’d had this same discussion on our Swiss trip last year. On that occasion, the guests had decided to head for home before more disaster struck. But in this instance, the circumstances were entirely different, so knowing what I knew now, I felt confident trying to put a few minds at ease and possibly salvaging the trip. “I can just about guarantee you that no one else on this trip is going to fall down a flight of stairs and die,” I stated with some authority.
“How do you know that?” Brandy Ann demanded.
“Because Gabriel Fox was caught trying to leave the country this morning. He’s in the custody of the Rome police at the moment, and I suspect when they’re through interrogating him, they’re going to learn that he’s the person responsible for all these so-called accidental deaths.”
A collective gasp went around the room. “Gabriel Fox?” Mom repeated. “Oh, my goodness, Emily. Are you saying he’s a murderer? But he’s much too well groomed to be a criminal.”
“Yeah!” Keely seconded. “Why are you picking on Gabriel? Just because he skipped out on this dopey gig doesn’t mean he killed anyone.”
“Did any of you know how much he really didn’t want to be here?” I questioned. “Gabriel Fox despised romantic novels! He considered them so far beneath him that he conducted his own private war against them at Hightower. He couldn’t stand the thought of not editing literary novels anymore, so when Philip Blackmore shoved romance down his throat, I suspect he planned his revenge by trying to rid the world of anyone who ever aspired to add her voice to the genre. He killed quietly and ruthlessly and was clever enough to make it look like an accident! All of you writers were in danger, and you’d still be in danger if he hadn’t run off after killing Sylvia.”
More gasps. “Why’d he kill Sylvia?” Amanda called out. “She wasn’t a romance writer.”
“She used to be! Years ago. She wrote under the name Elizabeth Hampton and was making quite a name for herself until Gabriel Fox reviewed her work and said things so scathing, her confidence shattered, and she never wrote another word. He ruined her writing career! But she kept that part of her life a secret, so he never knew the reason she despised him so much.”
“If that was the case, how come she didn’t kill him?” Lucille Rassmuson objected. “If a fella ruined my career, that’s what I’d want to do.”
Nods. Whispers of assent.
“If she killed him, she wouldn’t be able to antagonize him anymore, and I think making his life miserable was one of her greatest pleasures. On the other hand, by killing her, he’d be eliminating another person who was promoting the romance genre, and that’s exactly what he wanted to do. Sylvia would never stop selling romances to Philip Blackmore if she lived, and Philip Blackmore would never stop shoving every last one of them down Gabriel’s throat. He probably thought he had to kill her.”
“How did he kill her if he was in Pisa?” Brandy Ann questioned.
“He did the same thing I did yesterday. He took the train back to Florence and caught her unawares last night.”
More nods. Soft chatter. Less fear.
“Did that Fawkth fella kill Philip Blackmore and make it look like an acthident too?” George inquired.
I shook my head. “Philip’s fall really was an accident. I saw the whole thing.”
“So you think we’d be safe if we continued the trip?” a blonde woman asked in a tentative voice.
“I know you’d be safe,” I assured her. “How could you not be safe? They’ve caught the killer.” I smiled at the relief on the faces before me and felt a modest surge of pride that my sleuthing efforts might have saved the trip from a premature end. Was I getting good at this job or what? Alice Tjarks stood up and aimed her camcorder at me.
“Folks back home might be interested in how you figured out what’s been happening here, Emily. You want to go through the details again so I can get it recorded? I bet the fellers at KORN radio might even want to interview you when we get home. They could make you out a real hero.”
I blushed at the suggestion and felt my neck grow warm as a few scattered claps erupted into a round of enthusiastic applause. Oh, wow. I smiled, and bowed, and curtsied, and blushed some more. This was just like being onstage. Only this was a lot better because I wouldn’t have to wake up to any bad reviews in the morning paper.
“Tell us how you figured everything out,” Dick Teig urged when the applause died down. I heard a little whir as Osmond adjusted the zoom lens on his camcorder.
“You really want to hear all that?” I asked.
“Speech!” yelled Dick Stolee.
“Speech!” yelled Alice Tjarks.
I gave my shoulders a humble shrug. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Um, I first started to become suspicious —”
“The word’s just in from the surveillance tapes,” Duncan interrupted as he came up behind me. He listened intently to the person on the other end of the line, then uttered a few words of Italian into the phone and held it away from his ear before announcing, “Jeannette Bowles wasn’t pushed from the top of the Duomo.”
Murmurs. Muttering. Gasps.
“The tape shows that she was backed against the gallery railing, shooting a picture of something above her head. Those of you who climbed to the top know it can be pretty windy up there, and the weather conditions proved fatal for Jeannette.”
The wind blew her off? Oh, man, there should be signs warning about that.
“Some of you may have noticed that she was wearing a scarf around her neck two days ago. The video shows a wind gust ripping the scarf from her throat and carrying it over the rail. When she spun around to catch it, she found herself immobilized because the back of her dress was snagged on the railing. But she lunged for the scarf anyway and was too off-balance to stop herself when she leaned too far over. It all happened in a matter of seconds. She didn’t even have time to scream.”
My breath caught in my throat. Jeannette Bowles died not because Gabriel Fox pushed her but because she was wearing my coral sweaterdress with the decorative shoulder strap? Oh, my God! Would she still be alive if my dress had been constructed from polyester instead of the more snag-prone cotton knit? Could I be charged with negligent homicide because I’d exercised my preference for breathable fabrics?
“Are you saying Gabriel Fox didn’t have anything to do with that Bowles woman’s death?” Dick Teig asked.
Duncan shook his head. “He was nowhere around her when she fell.”
Dick turned to Osmond. “Don’t erase that tape. If Fox decides to sue Emily’s ass for slander, you could make a bundle.”
“Wouldn’t that be more defamation of character?” Helen asked.
“No, no,” Lucille corrected. “It would be a clear case of libel.”
“But Gabriel Fox has to be the killer,” I blubbered. “He had the opportunity. He had the motive!”
“Didn’t no one try to help that woman unsnag her dress?” Nana asked.
Dun
can shook his head. “She was all alone in that section of the gallery for several minutes while people attended to the man who was suffering from heat exhaustion. A man in a safari hat.”
Safari hat? All eyes flew to Fred, who suddenly looked as if he’d like to disappear through a hole in the floor.
“It wasn’t heat exhaustion,” he said grudgingly. “It was a panic attack. And it was all their fault!” He stabbed his finger at Brandy Ann and Amanda. “I told them I didn’t like heights. I told them I’d do better visiting museums, but nooo, they had to climb to the highest point in the whole damn city!”
“Hey, you didn’t have to come with us!” Amanda yelled.
“And then what would I have done? Wandered around Florence all by myself? What fun is that? I’m always by myself!” He dropped his head to stare self-consciously at the floor. “I…I kinda liked being part of a group.”
Poor Fred. A victim of peer pressure even at his age.
“What about Sylvia?” Keely called out. “Was Gabriel Fox anywhere around her when she fell down the stairs?”
Duncan waved his phone in the air. “He was on a train to Rome when she fell. And according to the autopsy results, Sylvia Root’s blood alcohol level was soaring at the time of her death, so that, combined with the condition of the stairs and the fact that her foot was caught in the hem of her pants, paints a rather accurate picture of the incident. The police will be filing no criminal action in the case. It’s been ruled an accident.”
“She got so pickled at the restaurant last night, I don’t see how she made it up the stairs in the first place!” Lucille Rassmuson charged.
“But she wasn’t a mean drunk,” Grace Stolee admitted. “She told some funny stories at dinner. At least, I think they were funny. She was slurring her words so badly, I couldn’t catch some of the punch lines.”
“Sylvia was drunk last night?” I exclaimed.
“Stinking drunk,” Dick Teig called out.
I heaved an agitated sigh. You’d think maybe someone could have mentioned that to me?