by Joanne Pence
They hid in a doorway. The man with the green cap appeared at the end of the street, slinking along the sides of buildings, his eyes searching.
“He’ll find us if we stay here,” Angie whispered. “Run.”
She and Cat ran down the block and turned a corner into a warren of ancient streets. They looked back, and saw him running after them.
A young man walked toward them. “Help!” Angie grabbed his arm. “Someone is chasing us.”
“You’re crazy,” he said, pulling free. “Crazy American!”
The streets were narrow. Only one small car at a time could fit in them. The buildings were nearly black with centuries of soot, and so tall that Cat felt as if she were running through a maze. “I don’t see him anymore,” she said, clutching Angie’s jacket. “Do you know where we are?”
Angie nervously looked around. Little sunlight reached them. This was not a good place to be, the sisters realized, night or day. “Just keep going straight,” Angie tried to sound confident. “We’ll find our way out eventually.”
They did as she’d suggested, but when they turned a corner, the green-capped man was there. “Mamma mia!” he cried.
Angie screamed.
Without giving him a chance to say or do anything, Cat whacked him in the face with her oversized handbag. He tried to grab the bag. Cat kept swinging, and Angie joined her.
A crowd quickly formed around them, cheering the women on.
The man’s cap fell off. Crouching, he covered his bald head with his hands. “Stop!” he yelled. Finally, he managed to escape.
The crowd roared its approval.
Surprised and smug, the sisters watched him run.
They were high-fiving themselves when he stopped farther up the narrow street and turned to face them. “Your mother hired me to watch you,” he called, patting his cut lip. “She was worried about you two in Rome all by yourselves. I’ll tell her she doesn’t have to worry! I quit!”
Stunned, Angie and Cat watched him limp away.
Paavo was rereading the Sea Cliff homicide reports in hopes that an overlooked clue would jump out at him when he felt someone’s eyes.
He lifted his head, and could barely stifle a groan.
“Frannie,” he said. “I thought you’d gone home long ago.”
“Mamma called me on my cell phone.” Her face wore an ugly scowl as she plunked herself in Yosh’s chair. Yosh was out reinterviewing Flora Piccoletti’s neighbors.
“Now that Papa and Kenny are out of the house, Mamma’s wearing her fingers to the bone on the telephone to get Angie and Cat home. If she doesn’t succeed soon, she’s going after them herself.”
“God help us,” Paavo murmured.
“You can say that again. She’d do anything for those two.” She held up a scrap of paper. “She gave me some information for you. The phone number of Marcello’s sister—Flora Piccoletti’s only daughter.”
Paavo reached for it, but Frannie pulled back her hand and put the paper in the pocket of her jeans.
“I’ve already called her. She’s waiting for us at a bar in Cow Hollow. I’ll introduce you two.” Frannie’s mouth wrinkled in disgust. “Of course, the way it’s going for everyone else in her family, by the time we get there, she might be dead.”
“I hate this!” Cat yelled, and stabbed a paring knife into the chicken breast Luigi wanted boned.
Luigi jumped back. “What’sa matter you? You make a hole in the meat! You think you’re some Gypsy knife thrower now?” From his fearful expression and gaping mouth, he must have expected her to plunge it into him next.
She’d been tempted. Her husband was missing, her sister was badgering her, and after midnight, alone, she planned to meet a man she wasn’t positive she could trust. On top of that, Luigi expected her to bone chicken?
That’s what butchers were for. If one wanted chicken fillets, one bought them that way.
The only one around here she wanted to bone . . . no, that didn’t come out right. The only one she wanted to debone was Luigi, with all his arrogance and bossiness.
Or Bruno, who was a dictatorial maniac.
Or Angie, who couldn’t leave her alone for two seconds.
She yanked out the knife and waved it in front of Luigi’s nose. “I’m thinking of making sausage next.”
He placed two fingers against the knife blade and gently eased it away from his face. “You wanna break? You got it.”
Cat glanced at Cosimo, and suddenly an idea sprang to mind, a way to get herself permanently out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where she could watch and listen to the customers, and just possibly one of them might divulge some connection to Marcello, or the chain, or something that would lead to resolving this mess.
She smacked the knife onto the chopping block, tossed her apron atop it, then took Cosimo by the shoulder of his jacket and dragged him out of the restaurant. As his feet skirted the ground, he looked scared to death.
Angie and the others watched, slack-jawed and silent, as Cat headed onto the Via Porta Cavalleggeri. Angie could only hope Cat would be safe out there, but she, too, knew better than to cross her sister.
Frannie sat back in the Corvette, luxuriating in the leather seats, the growl of the engine. “I thought you were too stuffy for a car like this,” she said to Paavo.
He grimaced. “And I thought you were too PETA to sit on leather seats.”
“I don’t approve, but if the animal must be killed for food, then no part of it should go to waste. That’s what the American Indians believed. And so do I.”
“A useful philosophy,” he said.
She gave him a sidelong glance to discern if he was mocking her. Her eyes narrowed. “I take my work seriously. Mankind has the capacity to destroy the world. It’s important to restrict him. It’s our duty to save species close to extinction. There’s a lot of work to be done. Most of the great animals of Africa are dying out–gorillas, elephants, lions. Also whales. And in this country, wolves, grizzlies, condors, eagles—more species than you can name. It’s quite tragic. Most people don’t know, or don’t care. Not even my own sisters.”
“I’ve heard Angie say that she agrees with most of your causes,” Paavo said. “Just not necessarily the tactics used.”
“At least Angie listens to me. Cat never would. She always said I was embarrassing. Can you imagine? She said I’d better not get Angie involved in my causes or I’d have her to answer to.”
“Cat tried to protect Angie?” That didn’t fit Paavo’s image of Caterina at all.
“She didn’t care so much about Angie as she did the family name. I guess it was bad enough if one Amalfi daughter was arrested for a good cause. Heaven forbid two got their names in the papers.”
“That sounds like Cat,” Paavo admitted.
“Things worked out the way Cat wanted, since Angie only went on a protest with me once. It turned out badly, I’m sorry to say.”
“Angie protested something?” She’d never told him about that.
“That’s right. She was going to protest the razing of an old windmill in a park in Berkeley. It’s not only animals I care about, it’s things as well. Mankind is the problem, you see.”
“I see,” Paavo said, willing to agree so he could hear the rest of the story.
“Come to think of it, Angie was always enthusiastic about doing things together. Very sisterly and all. I’d kind of forgotten that about her. She was always willing to tag along when we were growing up.”
Frannie seemed lost in thought for a moment, then continued with her story. “About the Berkeley protest, we hand-painted some T-shirts and headed off to the sit-in where we expected to be arrested. Unfortunately, it started to rain, and the protest disbanded. I mean, jail is one thing, but not when you’re already cold and wet. Anyway, Angie had drawn a big brown windmill on her T-shirt, but in the rain, the ink she’d used started to fade. It turned sort of flesh-colored.”
Frannie started to giggle. “She had to walk
through Berkeley and ride BART all the way back to the city wearing on her chest what looked like a giant phallus with a propeller on top. You should have heard the comments from men on the street.” Frannie’s snickers turned to full laughter. “Angie was so mortified, she couldn’t even hear the word ‘windmill’ for a couple of years without turning beet red. Mamma couldn’t understand why I kept bringing home library books about Holland.”
Paavo just shook his head. If he allowed himself to smile, if even the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, that would be the first thing Frannie would tell Angie when she saw her again. To his surprise, Frannie wiped away a tear. “I never thought I’d admit it, but Angie wasn’t half bad for an annoying little sister,” she said, her throat thick. “I actually miss the little brat.”
This time he did laugh.
Flanagan’s Pub was just off of Union Street. The drone of voices, smell of beer and whiskey, and the sound of a television and a jukebox playing at the same time assaulted their senses the instant they put one foot past the door.
A loud whoop came from deep in the bar, and Frannie let out an answering call. She and a tall, heavyset woman met in the center with a big hug. Both talked rapid-fire at the same time about how long it had been, how good the other looked, how sorry Frannie was to hear about Josie’s mother’s death, and how sorry Josie was to hear that Frannie’s sisters were in trouble because of Marcello.
Paavo listened hard, hoping to pick up some bit of news, but everything they said, he already knew. Josie had an attractive face, with short, curly black hair and brown eyes.
“So this is Angie’s fiancé?” Josie asked Frannie, as if Paavo wasn’t standing three feet away.
“Yes, he’s the detective,” Frannie replied.
“Angie’s doing all right. He’s good looking,” Josie said with a bold wink.
“If you like cops,” Frannie said, then turning to Paavo, added, “Meet Josie Nakagawa. Josie, Paavo Smith.”
They went to a table. A cocktail waitress followed, and they all ordered microbrewery beers.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Paavo began. “I’m the lead on investigating her murder, but so far we’re hitting a stone wall. No one can think of a reason anyone would want to harm her.”
“Nobody but her kids,” Josie said, then sadly shook her head. “I shouldn’t say that. Mom wasn’t easy on any of us. She hated my husband. Nice Italian girls don’t marry Japanese men under Mom’s rules of the universe. She cut me off. For Rocco, it was the same. He tried hard, but nothing he did made her happy. But when I got married and settled down, Rocco simply went away. I heard he changed his name, skirted the edge of the law. He grew more and more tough. Tough and bitter.”
“Changed his name?” That could explain why he hadn’t been able to find any information on him. “Do you know to what?”
“Rocky Pick.” She chuckled. “Ugly, isn’t it? Only Marcello stuck around Mom, and look at him.” At Paavo’s inquiring look, she explained, “He’s not a happy man. When I look into his eyes, I only see sadness.”
“Excuse me,” Frannie said, “but all this touchy-feely family stuff is making my stomach turn. I’m going to play some pool in the back.”
After she’d gone, Josie continued. “My mother kept pushing. She was never satisfied with her life, her husband—my dad died at a young age—or her kids. She told Marcello he was the only one who hadn’t deserted her, that he was the one she could depend on. Whatever he did, though, was never enough. He should be smarter, richer, more famous. Marcello kept doing crazy things, always trying to make her happy until . . . ”
“Until?” Paavo asked.
“I’m not sure. Something happened about five or six years ago. I never saw Marcello after that, even though he was right here in the city and I live only about fifty miles away.”
Paavo frowned. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.
“Would you tell me what’s going on with Marcello?” Josie asked. “I don’t understand any of this. Do you think the murder at his house is somehow connected with my mother’s death?”
Paavo told what he could.
“A chain of St. Peter?” Josie shook her head in disgust. “That sounds like the sort of wild-ass thing Marcello would decide to use to make his fortune. Or Rocco. Neither wanted to recognize that the only way to get ahead was through hard work.”
“I was wondering,” Paavo said cautiously, “if you’d be willing to take a look at the body found in Marcello’s house. He might be a friend, someone from Marcello’s past or some associate.”
Josie studied him uneasily, as if something in his eyes or expression might have given his thoughts away. “I’ll do so, if you wish,” she said finally. “But I can’t imagine I’d recognize him.”
Paavo drew in his breath as he gave voice to the suspicion that had been lurking in his subconscious. “I have the feeling you just might.”
Chapter 28
In two hours, Cat returned with a bedraggled Cosimo in tow, his legs bowed under the weight of several shopping bags.
“Bruno,” she announced with a smile, “you owe Cosimo only a hundred ninety euros for all this. I am the best shopper you’ll ever meet.”
“What?” he yelled, red-faced. “A hundred ninety euros? For what?”
“You shopped?” Angie was aghast . . . and envious. She was also glad to see Cosimo, since she’d been stuck bussing dishes in his absence.
“I had to do it,” Cat said, a smile on her face for the first time since they’d arrived in Rome. “I couldn’t help myself. This place needs freshening up.”
“You shopped?” Angie repeated, as if it was the most wonderful word in the language.
From her bags, Cat pulled gold Florentine and glass candle holders; matching salt and pepper shakers; white linen napkins; gold brocade curtains; matching round tablecloths; and smaller, square white cloth to go over them.
For the walls, she’d bought a series of framed sketches of Da Vinci’s ideas for inventions, from helicopters to crossbows.
“I’m going to redecorate this place and make it look the way it should!” Cat announced to Bruno. Then she smiled at Luigi and said. “I told you you’re wasting my talent. I’m a shopper, not a chopper!”
Angie gawked, mouth open. Shopping certainly had put Cat in a good mood.
“The restaurant doesn’t need all these new things,” Bruno fumed, looking over Cat’s purchases. “I won’t pay!”
“My customers come here because they like my food!” Luigi bellowed.
Cosimo nodded. “Sì, and they like—”
Bruno elbowed Cosimo so hard he nearly toppled over.
“Of course they like the food,” Cat said, “but give them good food in a great atmosphere, and they’ll come even more often. I’m going to set things up.”
“No!” Bruno bellowed. “You cannot disturb my customers while they eat!”
“As each table is cleared and the old dirty linens removed,” Cat announced, “I’ll put the new linens on it. You’ll see how pleased customers will be. I know Marcello will love this.”
Cosimo sat in a corner, peering inconsolably at his now empty wallet.
Bruno shook his head and walked away, muttering something about bossy American women.
“Angie, I’m hearing two men say something about digging, but I can’t understand well enough to know what it is,” Cat whispered to her sister, returning to the kitchen after setting out new linens and candles on an empty table. “Their Italian is way too fast, but I think that’s what they said. They look like people who work outdoors.”
“The archeologists!” Angie cried. She peeked out the door. It was them.
As she watched, the older archeologist left his seat and headed for the restroom.
Angie took a full bread basket from the kitchen, waltzed over to the young man, and placed it on the table. “Enjoying your dinner, Stefano?” she asked, catching his eye.
“Very much,” he said, sitting back
in his chair to fully enjoy her company. “Now.”
She rested her hand on the back of his father’s empty chair. “How is your project coming along? Are you finding much?”
“A lot. We report to the Curator of Antiquities at the Vatican—we work for him. That’s why we’re here so often.”
“I see,” she said. “You must know Marcello Piccoletti, then. Or his brother, Rocco.”
“I don’t know Rocco, but Marcello and my father are good friends.”
Noticing the father heading their way, Angie moved to the next table and began rearranging Cat’s new place settings on it.
“Time to go,” the father said. He glanced suspiciously at Angie as he threw some bills on the table.
The younger man also stood, but couldn’t take his eyes from her. “Ciao,” he called.
“Ciao!” she said.
Still smiling at her, he put on a cap and headed out the door after his father.
Angie went to the window and watched them. The father looked like he had quite a bit to say to his son as they walked down the street. To her surprise, the young priest, Father Daniel, stepped from his rooming house and followed them. Why would that be?
She had to find out for herself.
Angie yanked off her apron, handed it to Bruno, and ran out the front door. The poor man probably thought she’d also decided to do some impromptu shopping.
She stayed close to the buildings as she watched the two archeologists and the priest, curious as to what was going on and if they knew each other.
The archeologists turned onto a side street.
Father Daniel crept along behind them in a way that quickly made it clear he didn’t want to be seen either.
Angie followed just as stealthily.
When the archeologists stopped and Father Daniel disappeared into a doorway, she ducked behind a Peugeot.
From down the street, a large gray car approached. The older archeologist stepped up to it, while the younger stayed on the sidewalk.
A hand reached out from the driver’s side with an envelope. The archeologist took it, nodded, and hurried back to his son.