The Da Vinci Cook

by Joanne Pence

  Maria drew in her breath then let it out in a rush. “Caterina was always the one I looked up to. She could have done anything. Bianca was always there to support whatever I wanted, but Trina would challenge me. Nothing was ever good enough the first time. I’d have to work hard before she’d say ‘job well done.’ She’s the sister I learned the most from.”

  “Angie has always admired Cat as well.”

  Blinking back tears, Maria found a tissue and loudly blew her nose. “I still tend to think of Angie as a kid. Sometimes she’d give the nuns a merry chase. Watching their patience with her and her little classmates is what caused me to wonder where they found so much inner strength and inner peace. It brought me closer to God.”

  “I guess Angie could be a challenge at times,” Paavo said with a smile as he thought about her as a rambunctious young girl. The image struck with a pang, reminding him how much he missed her. He wanted her home, safe in his arms.

  “I’ll never forget the time she was playing with a squirt gun,” Maria said with a wan smile. “It went dry near our parochial school, and she ran into church to refill it from a font of holy water. Sister Mary Faustina caught her and marched her straight to the priest. Angie was crying buckets, as you can imagine. The priest told her she might not have known it, but squirting things around her with holy water meant she’d blessed and purified them. Then he had her say three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys, and promise she’d never do it again. Mamma sent me to find Angie and bring her home, and I found her in Sister Mary Faustina’s office, having a long talk. Angie went home that day feeling better about herself and the love and forgiveness of the Lord. She looked about ten feet tall, and I don’t think she ever forgot it.”

  Paavo could imagine his Angie, in her headstrong way, doing something without clearly thinking it through, and then having to deal with a major, “Uh-oh, I’m in trouble now,” at the consequences.

  Unfortunately, she still did that sort of thing.

  “Come on!” Angie took off down the street after Marcello.

  Cat took a few steps then yelled, “Stop! The restaurant is back there.”

  “We can’t let Marcello get away. Not after waiting all this time to find him!” Angie called back.

  Marcello turned the corner, and so did Angie. She wanted some answers.

  Why had he followed them? Why wait until after they had left the restaurant to talk to them instead of doing so earlier? And why did he want them to stay in the restaurant itself?

  She followed him for three long, winding blocks, going farther and farther from the part of the city that she knew. She turned a corner, and he was gone. Vanished into thin air.

  She had suddenly come upon a neighborhood of apartment buildings, most four or more stories high, that bore signs of the constant soot and exhaust that filled the air. Most were rather heavy, squarish structures in stone, brick, or stucco, painted in earth tones—ocher, terra cotta, burnt sienna, as well as simple tans and beiges, with plain windows but often large, stylish doors and doorways.

  Cars weren’t simply parked on the street, but were double- and even triple-parked. The tiny vehicles, many so small they’d probably be seen as kiddie cars on U.S. streets, were somehow wedged into spaces so minuscule it didn’t seem possible without the aid of a crowbar. Only a narrow one-way lane down the center of the street remained open.

  Pity the person who was parked on the inside. How could he ever retrieve his car? It was madness. Angie decided she would never again disparage San Francisco’s parking situation.

  Skirting around cars and up and down the hilly, narrow streets was exhausting, and she stopped on a corner, holding a lamppost and trying to catch her breath as she scanned the area. Lights were still on in a number of buildings, but she saw no movement of any kind. Slowly, she walked down the block, half expecting him to jump out and yell at her for following him.

  Or whoever he’d been running from—clearly he’d seen or heard something that had spooked him—might jump out at her as well.

  “Do you see him anywhere?” she asked Cat. “Maybe we don’t want to be here. I don’t know anything about this neighborhood.”

  Cat made no comment, which was unlike her.

  Angie turned around.

  “Cat?” she whispered. Cat wasn’t there.

  Angie hurried back toward the corner. She looked down the street she’d been on before turning the corner and losing Marcello.

  “Cat!” Her call was loud this time, but it echoed in the dark night.

  Looking in every direction, she spun around. Where was her sister?

  She retraced her steps as best she could remember, but the night was dark, the streets weren’t well lit and tended to curve rather than line up in square city blocks the way she was used to in San Francisco. What’s more, the streets all looked the same to her, and she wasn’t sure which she’d run down. None of them were familiar.

  She saw some movement from the corner of her eyes. It wasn’t Marcello. He was far from her. She ran in the opposite direction, and after a while stopped.

  She was lost.

  And she couldn’t find Cat.

  Benedetta Rosangeli was in her seventies and dressed all in black. She loudly lamented Flora’s untimely, frightening death, tore at her handkerchief, kissed her rosary beads, and then poured coffee, put out cookies, and sat down to gossip with Maria and Paavo.

  “Tell us,” Maria said after she and Paavo each had an obligatory cookie, “What do you think is going on with the Piccolettis?”

  “Well . . . ” Benedetta’s elbows were on the table, and she leaned forward as if about to share major secrets. “Flora told me that the Vatican was interested in buying a sacred relic Marcello had obtained while in Italy.”

  “The Vatican?” Maria was surprised.

  “That’s right.” Benedetta’s head pumped up and down. Paavo’s mind turned toward the fake priest people had seen near Piccoletti’s house. “Flora had no idea how Marcello got the relic or what it was. But she believed Marcello when he told her it was both wonderful and priceless. Marcello was going to sell it, and with the money, buy Flora a castle in Italy. Flora was quite excited. But then, his story apparently changed. Flora tried to hide that she was upset, but it was clear to me that she was disappointed in him. Again.”

  “Disappointed?” To Paavo, it seemed a strange word to use. Benedetta pushed the plate of cookies toward him, but he shook his head.

  “All her children were disappointments. Marcello, her firstborn, was the last one she most held out hope for, but he was a failure, too.” Benedetta gave a shrug over the perversity of life.

  “What about Rocco?” Paavo wanted to know. “What did Mrs. Piccoletti say about him?”

  Benedetta waved her hand dismissively. “He’s lived in Florida for years. Flora banished him from her house. Same with her daughter, Josie. She was so angry with them both she couldn’t see straight.”

  “Why?”

  “They made nothing of themselves. She worked all her life to give them the best. After her husband died, her children were everything. Did they pay her back? Never! At least Marcello tried.”

  Paavo watched her expression carefully. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Flora?”

  Benedetta gave it careful thought. “She wasn’t a warm person, but dead? No, I don’t think so.”

  After what felt like an eternity of walking in circles, Angie managed to locate the main street, Via Porta Cavalleggeri, and from there, Da Vinci’s.

  She hurried down the back alley to Da Vinci’s rear entrance hoping Cat would be there waiting.

  She wasn’t.

  Angie knocked on the door. Maybe Cat had used the key and gone inside.

  No one answered.

  Despair settled over her, and she sat on the cement steps, heartsick, her head in her hands. Now what was she going to do? How was she going to tell Mamma that she’d lost Caterina? Or tell Charles, for that matter. One thing after the other had go
ne wrong, but nothing as bad as this, now—

  “I can’t believe you’re just sitting there taking it easy!” It was Cat’s irritating voice, and Angie thought she had never heard anything so sweet.

  “Where did you go?” Angie asked, jumping to her feet.

  “I didn’t go anywhere. How could I run after Marcello in these Ferragamos? Look at how high the heel is, how pointy the toe? Don’t you know how much my feet hurt already? I’ve got blisters on my blisters. So, I sat down and waited by the Vatican wall, figuring it was safer there than in this alley. I expected you’d show up eventually. What took you so long? ”

  “I couldn’t find my way back,” she admitted.

  “It looks like you didn’t find Marcello either.”

  “No, but I think I know the block he’s living on—if I can find it again.”

  “There may be an easier way,” Cat said, holding up the key he’d given her. “Let’s see what we can turn up inside.”

  Angie watched as Cat tried to get the key to work. “Why didn’t you ask him why Rocco was at his house?” Angie asked. “Or if he had any guesses as to who the dead man might be? Or if Rocco could be a killer? Or where Rocco is now?”

  “Because it was clear he knew nothing about it.” Cat jiggled the key. The latch clicked, and she pushed the door open.

  “I wonder if there’s a security alarm?” Angie looked around the walls for a control panel.

  “I think Marcello would have mentioned it,” Cat said, sliding the dead bolt back into place. “But he’s not much into security. He put a system in his house only to sell it.”

  “Good. I’d hate for the police to find us here,” Angie said with a shudder. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  Careful to leave everything in place, they searched Bruno’s office. It had a locked safe. Other than that, they found Marcello’s name on some official documents and bills, but nowhere else. Leafing through an old Rolodex near the telephone, Angie found a number with a P beside it. “I wonder if this is his cell phone?”

  Cat looked at it. “If it is, I doubt he’d like to hear from us anymore tonight. Tomorrow, however, his curiosity might be high again. I’ll give the number a try then.” She rolled her stiff shoulders. “I’m too tired to think, anyway. Let’s find the bedroom and get some sleep.”

  One half of the attic had been partitioned off to form a sleeping area with a double bed, dresser, mirror, nightstand, lamp, and alarm clock. There was no bathroom upstairs. The only one was located off the restaurant’s dining room, and it had no tub or shower. As Angie switched on the bedroom lamp, Cat shut the downstairs lights. A soft glow illuminated the small space.

  “I guess that’s the only bed,” Cat said with dismay at the small size of it. She pulled the top blanket off, creating a cloud of dust in the room. Angie sneezed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as Cat lifted off the next blanket and a sheet.

  “Checking the sheets,” Cat said. “I want no surprises when I get under them.” She even took off the bottom sheet to inspect the mattress. Seeing its many stains, she wished she hadn’t.

  Angie, meanwhile, had been opening bureau drawers. “Clean sheets,” she announced, lifting out some folded ones. She shook them out.

  They remade the bed. Then as Cat used the old sheets to dust off the furniture and the mirror, Angie went downstairs, and soon came back up with a broom and dustpan.

  She began to sweep the dust from the floor and under the bed. So much kicked up, they were in a haze. Cat opened the window. It looked out onto the main street. She stuck her head out, then quickly pulled it back inside. She huddled next to the wall and whispered to Angie, “Give me the dustpan.”

  “I’ve got to dump it out first.”

  “No. Now!”

  Cat held out her hand, and Angie passed it to her. Cat dumped the dirt and dust out the window.

  They heard a loud “Kachoo!” followed by running footsteps.

  “Who was that?” Angie asked.

  “A policeman,” Cat said with almost eerie calm. She clapped her hands to get rid of the dust. “I think they really are looking for us!”

  She quickly shut and locked the window.

  “A couple of cops came into the restaurant earlier,” Angie said, remembering Bruno’s odd reaction to the visit. “We might not be the only ones they’re after.”

  Cat’s eyes widened. “Marcello said someone was after him. And if Paavo’s boss is talking to Rome about me, surely he’d also ask them to look for Marcello and Rocco. What better place than here?”

  “If it was a cop outside just now,” Angie said, “he’d be investigating why the lights are on. I think it was someone else.”

  “Whoever it was, they’re gone. Screw them!” Cat sounded too tired to care about anything more as she trotted downstairs to wash up in the restaurant’s bathroom.

  Bemused, Angie stared at the closed window for a second. If nothing else, Cat was decisive. She soon followed her sister.

  When she returned, Cat was sitting up in bed. She wore faded men’s pajamas, once blue and white striped, but now shades of dingy gray. “There are some old pj’s in the drawer below the one with the sheets,” she said.

  Angie found one pair left in the drawer, but the elastic around the waist had been stretched out, the seat worn thin. She decided not to think about it, and with a shudder put them on. Only one of three buttons was still on the top piece. Cat’s pajamas had all of its buttons, and she bet the elastic worked as well. She wouldn’t put it past her sister to have checked out both pairs, and then refolded the ones she didn’t want.

  “I wonder who they belonged to?” Angie said with a slight “ickiness” to her tone.

  “I’d rather not know.” Cat yawned.

  Holding the pants up and the top closed, Angie headed for the bed.

  “You sleep over there.” Cat pointed at the side nearest the window. “This is the dividing line.” Using her hand like a hatchet, she marked the division between the two sides. “You stay on your own side. Don’t let your feet get near me. Keep your arms to yourself, and if you sleep on your side, face the window. I hate anyone breathing in my direction.”

  “Do you give Charles all these rules as well?” Angie asked, pulling the covers up to her chin as she lay down.

  Cat’s response was to glower. Angie took it as a yes.

  The mattress was lumpy.

  “Poor Charles,” Angie said, bounding around, trying to get comfortable.

  “Poor Charles?” Cat repeated. “Why do you say that?”

  “You and Marcello are having an affair.”

  “What?” Cat sputtered. “I could never make love to a man who uses more hair product and wears more jewelry than I do!”

  “The truth, Cat!”

  Cat reached over and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. “Maybe there was a spark of something between us. But I’ve never . . . I take my wedding vows seriously, Angie.”

  “You never talk about Charles,” Angie pointed out.

  “Why should I? He’s just my husband.”

  The words were only half joking. Angie waited for Cat to say more.

  “I know everyone thinks my life is about as perfect as it can get,” Cat said. A streetlight near the window cast the room in a pale glow. “I mean, look at me. I look like a happy person, don’t I? These clothes, this hair, this face, this body.”

  This modesty, Angie thought, but kept her mouth shut.

  “How could I be anything but happy?” Cat said into the shadows. “Have you ever wondered why I have a job? Charles and I have money, more than we could ever dream of spending even if it weren’t for the trust Papa gave all of us girls. Charles makes a fortune with his investment banking. But Angie, the man can be so dull. Sometimes I want to put a mirror under his nose to see if he’s still alive. He lives in his own little world. I’ve created another for myself. I’m good—no, great—at what I do, but sometimes . . . sometimes it gets a little lonely.”
>
  Cat’s words jarred Angie. She’d never admitted anything like that to her before. “So you were looking for excitement?”

  “Probably. It wasn’t Marcello. He didn’t interest me for himself. It was just feeling alive again. Do you understand what I mean? To think that someone could be interested in me, to flirt, was fun. Nothing more.”

  “And when you saw him rushing away from a crime scene, carrying the object you went to the house to look for, your adrenaline began pumping and you went after him. You felt alive.”

  “It was stupid. I should have just gone home,” Cat said softly.

  Angie conjured up a picture of the stooped, slightly balding man Cat was married to, the sort who looked fifty-five even when he was in his twenties. “Do you still love Charles?”

  Angie expected to be told it was none of her damn business, but Cat was silent a long while. “He’s stalwart,” she said. “Loyal. Trustworthy.”

  “So’s a German shepherd.”

  “He’s . . . nice. A good provider.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Or does it?”

  “You ask too many questions, Angie.” Cat rolled to her side. “Now go to sleep.”

  Angie suddenly felt bad for her sister. She no longer doubted there was an ulterior motive for Cat rushing off to Italy on this peculiar adventure, but the reason her sister had done it was quite different from what Angie had expected.

  Chapter 21

  Daly City, just south of San Francisco, was one of the original “ticky-tacky little houses” communities where every house looked like every other one on the block. Since the homes were once cheap, a number of older San Francisco cops still lived there. As the prices of homes went higher, though, fewer young police could afford the area. Fewer still could afford much of anything in the Bay Area unless their wives also worked full-time.

  Sometimes Paavo, who’d grown up knowing what it was like to be poor, felt almost guilty about having a fiancée as wealthy as Angie. With her, if he wanted, he’d never have to work again.

  She often worried about the dangers of his job. He knew she’d be perfectly happy if he quit the police force and did something safe, like helping her father with the operation of the many shoe stores he had opened up in malls throughout Northern California. Salvatore was considering setting up franchises. The man was at the age when he should have been thinking about retiring, and his heart condition definitely meant he should slow down.