By now, it’s late afternoon, and I begin, automatically, to walk towards Pierangelo’s, then I turn away. I’m not ready for company yet. I took one of the pink tranquillizers before I left the apartment, but it must be wearing off because I feel anything but calm. I don’t think I could sit still if I tried. It’s a relief, of sorts, not to be numb, to escape the dulled haze I’ve been more existing than living in for the last day and a half. But now, instead, my insides are simmering and popping. What I feel, I realize as I turn into the narrow warren of streets behind Piazza della Signoria, is angry.
Oddly enough I’m not mad at Francesca Giusti, who was just doing her job—and well, I’ll admit, I wouldn’t want to face her in court—but at Pallioti. I’m angry with him for not trusting me with whatever it was he had been about to say just now, for darting back under the ice and fobbing me off with some clichéd sidewalk profundity. I thought better of him. I thought, I realize with something of a shock, that he was my friend.
‘They think I did it.’
‘What?’ Pierangelo is chopping, the knife coming down in sharp rhythmic smacks on the cutting board.
‘They think I did it. Or at least that woman does, Francesca Giusti.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Not from where they’re sitting.’ I pour myself a glass of wine and look at him. ‘Think about it. I know everything, every single little detail. I was hiding gory pictures in my bedroom. I commune with dead women, and, according to them, Billy and I were lovers. She took me where I didn’t want to go, so I killed her, and made it look like this creep did it. Makes perfect sense to me.’
‘Cara.’ Piero abandons the vegetables he’s been mutilating and puts his arms around me, rests his cheek on the top of my head. ‘I have some leave coming up,’ he says. ‘I’ll take it. We’ll go to Monte Lupo, as soon as this is over.’
‘What makes you think it’s going to be “over”?’
‘Of course it will be.’ He runs his fingers down my face. ‘They’ll find who did this. Pallioti isn’t a fool.’
‘What if it wasn’t Indrizzio?’ Piero frowns. ‘I’m not kidding,’ I say. ‘What if it wasn’t? I asked Pallioti today, and he said the cases against him for both Benedetta and Eleanora Darnelli were totally circumstantial. They never even charged him for them. He was in the area when Benedetta was killed, but so what? I mean, he lived there. In the gardens, or wherever. They never even put him in the vicinity when Eleanora Darnelli was killed, or at least they hadn’t when he died.’
Piero has picked up his knife again and I can’t see his face.
‘The killings stopped,’ I say. ‘So they just dropped it. But what if whoever really did it was out there the whole time? And now he’s back.’
‘The case against Indrizzio for you and Ty was strong. DNA, and blood typing,’ Pierangelo points out. ‘He had Ty’s wallet and your wallet. Cara, he described you.’
‘But he never confessed, did he? And they didn’t find my blue handbag with Indrizzio. He said he thought I was dead when he found us. So he took the wallets. Piero,’ I insist, ‘what if he was telling the truth?’
Pierangelo turns round and looks at me. ‘He wasn’t. So, he dumped your bag somewhere. So what? I’ll accept that there’s a question in the case of the other two. But you and Ty, no. Most of the time, when it quacks like a duck, it is a duck. Cara, the man who attacked you and killed Tyler is dead. He isn’t out there.’
‘And this guy?’ I reach for my glass, but my hand is shaking again. ‘They think maybe Billy decided to “investigate.” I don’t buy that, do you?’
‘I didn’t know her. So I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘She wanted me to be more careful. That’s why she brought all that stuff up at dinner at Santo Spirito. She was trying to shame me, bulldoze me, I don’t know, into being more careful. She said if he was copying Indrizzio, he’d know about me. She said I didn’t take it seriously enough and she’d have to be my guardian angel.’
I burst into noisy, bawling tears. Pierangelo stops with the food and holds me. He takes me into the living room and sits me on the couch, rocks me back and forth while I howl. And when I’m quieter he strokes my hair.
‘Maybe you should leave,’ he says. ‘If you want to go back to the States for a while, until this is cleared up, I’m sure Pallioti will understand.’
‘No, he won’t. Don’t be dumb. And besides, what about you? I can’t leave you. I just got you.’ I look at my ring, at the beautiful cherry-coloured ruby and the winking diamonds.
‘Matches your hair,’ Pierangelo says, tugging my pink stripe. ‘That’s why I chose it.’
‘What if I dye it green?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘then I suppose I’ll have to buy you an emerald.’
Chapter Nineteen
I THOUGHT THE apartment would be different. That, despite what Francesca Giusti told me, the door would be sealed, and I wouldn’t be able to get in. Or that it would be covered in fingerprint dust, the way places are in the movies, with drawers left open and furniture turned upside down. But it isn’t any of those things. All it is, is empty.
The article on Billy’s murder is coming out today and Pierangelo left early. He offered to come with me to collect some more of my things, but I told him I wanted to be alone. Now I wish I hadn’t, and that he was standing here beside me, stirring the silence that’s built up like silt.
The French windows in the kitchen are still tied shut. The first traces of the police are smudges of dark powder around the door handles in the living room, and the fact that the papers on the desk have been squared into too neat a pile. The shutters are up, the curtains open, and below on the street the city is coming to life again, stirring like a bloated animal after the Easter festivities. A gaggle of tourists heads for Santo Spirito, skirting the bollards and tape that have been set up by an open manhole in the middle of the road where a grey electricity van is parked, one set of wheels on the sidewalk. As I watch a moped comes by, threading in and out, then speeding off towards the piazza. The sound fades, and I pull the curtains. The sun needs to be kept off Signora Bardino’s pretty little desk.
After the living room, I patrol the bathroom, put some of my things in a bag, then I stand in the hallway outside Billy’s door. A shout rings up from the street, followed by laughter, and beyond the silence of the apartment I can hear music, high and tinny, coming from a radio. The announcer breaks in, the news bulletin from Rome. When I finally turn the knob, I realize I expected it to be locked, as if I should be barred from entering, punished for what I have done. But the door swings inward, whispering.
Sun streams through the window, highlighting streaks of dust on the floor and the bureau. Strands of Billy’s hair are caught in her brush and glow golden white, spiralling and almost translucent. I force myself to open the wardrobe and look at her clothes, uncertain of what I expect to find. All the hangers point in the same direction, which is an odd little hint of order, since the dresses and skirts and pants are mixed up. A cardigan has fallen to the floor and I pick it up, untangling the arm from one of the pointy-toed crimson pumps she wore to the party in the piazza. I hold the shoe for a second, studying a stain on the toe, and then I return it to its mate, and, for some reason, get down on my knees and begin to pair off all the shoes, lining them up two by two—loafers, boots and heels. A few are left over. There’s a single ankle boot, an old green sandal and a black patent-leather lace-up. They look lonely by themselves, so I put them all together at the end of the row, their toes touching in a three-way Eskimo kiss, and hear Billy laugh. My hands stop, and I turn round, still crouched on the floor of the closet. She’s here. I can feel her. I think that if I closed my eyes I could touch her.
I stand up slowly, as if sudden motion might scare her away, and slip my arms into the sleeves of the cardigan. The cuffs fall down over my hands, but I button it anyways. The faint odour of cigarette smoke and the sweet flowery scent of her shampoo cling to th
e soft blue wool. When I stare into her mirror, I half expect to see her standing behind me, telling me my hair is dirty and that there are circles under my eyes. Which is true. I don’t even remember which pills I took this morning.
The top of Billy’s dresser is too orderly. The police have put the bottles of hair stuff in straight lines. Her bracelets are a pile of enamelled glass and silver, and the framed picture of the house has been placed beside the mirror. When I open her jewel-lery box I hear a few tinkling notes, as though it once played a whole song but no longer has the energy to remember the music. Inside, there are a couple of cheap necklaces, a chain with a ladybird charm on it and a pin in the shape of a butterfly. From behind my shoulder, Billy whispers I should take it, so I do. I pin the butterfly to the shoulder of her cardigan.
In her top drawer I find a dog-eared envelope of photographs, some of people I don’t recognize, probably her family—her mother, a woman who might be her aunt Irene, and one of a boy who looks young enough be her son, but was, I suspect, her husband. The others are of us. Kirk and Henry and me sitting at the bar. The Japanese girls posing with Signor Catarelli in what looks like the gardens of one of the Medici villas. There’s even one of Signora Bardino standing in front of one of her trattorias, one hand clutching her Ferragamo bag while the other holds the shoulder of a young man in a white chef’s jacket.
I shouldn’t, I know, but I take it, and her ratty old coin purse that’s stuffed, not with coins, but with entrance tickets from everywhere we’ve ever been. She always said she was going to make a scrapbook. Or a collage. Maybe I’ll do it for her. I dig through the rest of the drawers, looking for her collection of postcards, but I can’t find them.
How did it happen? I stare at her things as if somehow they could tell me. Did someone call her? Did the guy in the mask take her number and ask her out for a drink, or to a party? Or was it different? Maybe she was just walking home from a movie or dinner, fitting her key into the security gate when he came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. Grabbed her and pulled her into the dark. But if that’s the case, she would have been wearing a coat or jacket. It hasn’t been warm enough to be without one at night.
I dart back into the hall and check, but yes, her tweed tent and her long pink raincoat are both here. So it didn’t happen at night. Or when it was cold. She must have met him in broad daylight. Which means it was unlikely that there was a fight or struggle. Billy’s a big girl, and tough. Surely that would have attracted attention. No. She must have gone with him willingly. Which means it’s likely that he was someone she knew. And probably someone I know too.
It’s past noon now, and I was going to go to the store for something to eat, a panini or a pastry, but suddenly I feel funny unlocking the door. I keep it open with my foot while I stand for a second on the landing, listening to the faint sound of Signora Raguzza’s radio. The Sassinellis are back, I noticed their windows open when I came in, so there are plenty of people around. Even so, as I let the door click shut and start down the stairs, I shove my hand in my pocket and stick my keys through my fingers the way they taught us in self-defence class.
Outside it’s turned sunny, and as I cross the courtyard I meet Signora Raguzza’s priest. He’s young, and he bows his head when he sees me, ducking like a rabbit, as if even the glimpse of a woman might be contaminating. His long skirt swishes as we pass, and his hands are folded into his black belled sleeves. He could be holding anything, I think. A knife. A gun. He’s as bad as me with my spiked fingers buried in my pocket.
‘Greetings, Father,’ I mutter in Italian.
‘God be with you,’ he mutters back. And it seems both our voices are filled with shame.
The store is crowded. School has finished and a bunch of kids, all in messy uniforms and carting book bags, are buying candy. The signora is busy serving them, parcelling out little white paper bags to each one, so Marcello serves me. When I ask for the closest thing they have to cookies, he rolls the ladder over to the stacked shelves and climbs up to reach for them, his sweatshirt riding up, the pallid hollow of his back marked by a white ridge of scar tissue that snakes under the blue material. I feel my own scars prickle in sympathy, and when he comes down suddenly, hopping to the floor, I make an extra effort to smile. Marcello winks and drops a couple of Baci into the bag.
‘You have an admirer.’
I don’t hear the voice until I am stepping out of the shop, and when I look round, I see Sophie standing behind me. Paolo is beside her, his knapsack hanging sideways off his shoulder while he inspects the contents of the candy bag the signora has just handed him.
‘Not really.’ I glance back at Marcello, who is watching me out of the corner of his eye as he serves the next person in line. I hope he’s not going to get in trouble. Probably the signora makes him pay for the extra treats he gives me. Somehow I don’t think she misses much.
‘Ah, young love,’ Sophie says as we start down the street and I give her one of the hazelnut chocolate candies. There’s a little strip of waxed paper, like in a fortune cookie, under the blue and silver foil, and Sophie extracts hers and reads aloud. “Knowledge can be learned and forgotten, but Venus’ art is truly eternal”. What about you?’ she asks.
“Love comes with many faces, but it is always with you.”’
‘Sure, and I’m going to meet a tall, dark stranger.’ Sophie laughs and pops the round chocolate candy into her mouth. Her cheeks bulge like a chipmunk’s while she chews.
‘Listen,’ she says a few seconds later, ‘I’m really sorry.’ She’s crinkling the Baci paper in her hand, rolling it into a little silver ball. ‘About your friend. It’s terrible. I’m really, really sorry.’
My step falters as I look at her.
‘You haven’t seen it?’ She stops and her face colours. ‘It’s on the front page of the paper. They don’t give her name, but I recognized her picture.’ The later edition of the paper comes out in the afternoon, around now, and Sophie pulls a copy out of her bag and shows me the front page. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought you knew.’
I did. Of course, I did. But, nonetheless, I’m a little surprised at how much it startles me.
They’ve edited me out of the picture I gave Pallioti, so all that’s left is Billy, smiling into the camera. ‘American Art Historian Murdered’ the headline says. Billy’d be thrilled they’re calling her an art historian. I’ll have to remember to thank Pierangelo. Sophie folds the paper again and puts it away.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
Paolo is pulling a black liquorice string out of its wrapper, threading one end of it into his mouth and sucking on it as if it’s a straw.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
She touches my shoulder, just once, her pink manicured nails brushing the fabric of my shirt. ‘If I can do anything—’ The sentence peters out in awkwardness, and we start to walk again. ‘You know,’ she adds, ‘I only live across the way.’
‘Thank you.’ She doesn’t push any harder, doesn’t get into some big fake grief act because she knows somebody who knows somebody who was murdered, and I’m grateful for it.
We come to the corner, stop to cross the road, and skirt the electricity van that’s still parked there. One of the bollards has fallen over in the street, dragging its yellow tape with it. No one seems to be around to right it.
‘Typical,’ Sophie says. ‘The Italian two-hour lunch break. Big Paolo’s already furious because his driver couldn’t get past them this morning. He had to go through the back and wait by the cellar door.’ She laughs. ‘As if the indignity of walking past a wine rack and driving down an alley makes him less of a man. I told him he should dump the Mercedes and get a Smart car, then he wouldn’t have the problem, but he didn’t think it was funny. They’ll be there for weeks and weeks,’ she adds, nodding at the van. ‘You’ll see.’
She pulls her keys out of her pocket, ushers Paolo up the steps and opens the gate. I follow her into the courtyard, and just before we part
she turns to me, her soft, round face clouded with concern.
‘Seriously, Mary,’ she says. ‘If there’s anything at all I can do…’ Sophie leans forward and gives me a quick, hard hug, then she turns towards her wing of the building, Paolo trailing after her, liquorice hanging out of his mouth.
The lights are off on our stairs, and I don’t bother to switch them on. It’s shadowy, and I count the steps as I go up. Twelve, then the landing, then twelve more to Signora Raguzza’s door, and twelve more after that to our landing. My hand trails on the banister and I watch my feet as I climb, so it’s not until I am halfway to the top that I look up and see the figure standing outside our door.
He’s dressed in black, in what looks like a cape or a cassock. I stop dead, and must make some kind of noise, a gasp, or a mew, because he turns round, and I realize it’s Kirk. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I was just going to leave you a note.’
When he gives me a hug, his shoulders are stiff and unyielding. He smells of mint, and underneath it something slightly sour, as if he hasn’t washed or brushed his teeth for a while, just thrown on aftershave and used mouthwash instead.
‘So, does the coffee at the police station suck, or what?’
It’s meant to be a joke, but Kirk’s voice is cracked, and neither of us laugh. A second later he says, ‘Henry’s in the bar. He said he’d pay if I came over here and convinced you to give us an espresso. We tried your cell,’ he adds, ‘a few times yesterday. We didn’t have what’s-his-name’s number.’
‘Pierangelo. My cell’s broken.’ I don’t tell Kirk I’m using one of Piero’s spare ones, and I don’t offer the number.
A flood of light hits us as I push the apartment door open, and I see that Kirk’s already fair skin is sickly white, and the rims of his eyes are as pink as a hamster’s. Despite the warmth of the day, he’s shrugged deep in his overcoat. I remember what Henry said about cocaine, and wonder exactly how much chemical help he’s had in the last few days.
The Faces of Angels Page 30