Murder Keeps No Calendar

by Cathy Ace

  As Doug always said: it was how you looked at a thing that made it what it was, and if you just took the bitter with the sweet, it would usually all work out for the best. In the end.

  The one thing everyone in the community agreed upon was that when Doug won the lottery it was marvelous; he could get the building work done on his shop, afford to take himself off on holiday while it was being carried out, and he’d have a nice little nest egg when he returned.

  And they were right; when Doug arrived at the bustling airport in Florence, he wasn’t a sad or bitter man in need of a pick-me-up. No, Doug Rossi was a man on a mission; he’d gone to the City of the Lily to find his roots, his Italian-Rossi roots, and he just knew he was going to have a wonderful time doing it. Of course he wished his late wife could have been with him, but he’d been working hard on coming to terms with her loss, and had decided to make the most of his one chance to see the land his immigrant grandfather had always referred to with teary eyes and a wistful smile.

  There was a lot he wanted to see – the Uffizi, the Duomo, and the Baptistery, just for starters; he’d heard stories about them all his life, and now he would get to see them for himself. But, more than just visiting the tourist spots, he wanted to taste Italy, to smell it, to feel it – he wanted to know what it was to be Italian. What he hadn’t planned on doing was stumbling across a vicious murder and getting dragged into a blood vendetta that would threaten his very life. But then again, who would?

  As the driver who’d collected him at the airport zigged and zagged through the frantic suburban traffic, Doug wondered if he’d done the right thing booking a place so far outside the center of the city. However, when the car finally swept into the gardens that surrounded the Hotel Villa de Luca, Doug was comforted; the faded, yet clearly once-grand ochre façade of the hotel made him feel strangely calm, the symmetrical windows either side of the portico entrance glittering in the spring sunshine. It was an inexplicable sensation; everything felt ‘just right’ to the recently widowed Scottish chip shop owner. He was treated with the utmost respect and gentility by the staff, who welcomed him with flawless and charmingly accented English.

  Once settled in his room, Doug sent out a silent ‘thank you’ to the nameless girl at the travel agents’ in Scotland who’d all but forced him to book a deluxe double room, rather than the single that had been his first choice; his room was opulent, yet homey, with an extraordinary mix of ancient and modern furnishings. He surveyed the view from his private balcony, entranced; all of Florence lay before him, just across the river – a medley of shadow-strewn red roof tiles, ochre stone, soaring towers and, above it all, that wonderful ribbed Duomo, of which his grandfather had always spoken with such affection. As Doug breathed in the sweetness of the fresh spring air he could hear bells chiming in the distance, and birds singing joyfully in the trees beneath him. The chip shop in Scotland seemed to exist in another lifetime for Doug, and the mellow light settling on the gardens around him reminded him of . . . nothing; it was all unique to that moment, and place.

  Doug had feared he’d be too tired for dinner after a long day of traveling, but realized he was quite peckish. He wasn’t, however, feeling terribly adventurous, so unpacked his meager supplies of clothing into a massive antique wardrobe, and decided to eat at the hotel itself, before returning to his room for an early night.

  Outside the grandly-chandeliered ballroom that housed the hotel’s restaurant, he noted with annoyance that it was closed that evening for a private event; an arrow pointed to the bar, promising a full menu from seven o’clock. With two hours to kill before the possibility of having something to eat, Doug toyed with the idea of taking a walk around the hotel’s gardens, but decided to go to the bar first and have a cup of coffee, to give himself a bit of a lift. He perused a selection of brochures about the attractions of the city displayed on a large pod in the entryway; reading them would give him something to do to pass the time before dinner.

  As he contemplated the choice of leaflets, he couldn’t help but notice a tall, slim, dark-haired woman standing just inside the front doors of the villa. She was screaming in Italian into her mobile telephone, and gesticulating wildly with her free hand. Impeccably dressed in a flowing fuschia trouser suit, she seemed to fit her surroundings perfectly, whereas Doug felt a bit like a duck out of water.

  Wandering uncertainly into the bar, he ordered a cappuccino, then watched with fascination as the barman engaged in a ballet of activity that resulted in the production of a frothing beverage. Doug felt he should have applauded as the young man set the drink on the tiny glass table in front of him with a flourish, but his attention was grabbed by the woman he’d seen earlier, as her heels clattered across the bar’s intricately inlaid marble floor. She threw herself into a chair close to Doug’s, then shouted something at the server in a rich, deep voice that was both commanding and soothing. She spoke to Doug in rapid-fire Italian as she lit a long, slim cigarette. He had no idea what she’d said, but decided the best course of action was to smile politely and drink his coffee.

  As Doug replaced his cup on the table – having finally found a drop or two of liquid beneath a pillow of foam – the woman started to laugh. It was a throaty, joyous sound. Once again she called out to Doug, and this time he knew he had to acknowledge her in some way other than just grinning inanely.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,’ he shouted – slowly – to allow for the fact she was foreign.

  ‘You face – you face!’ she called back.

  Doug made the international sign of not understanding – he held up his hands and shrugged his shoulders, while smiling and shaking his head.

  The woman unwound herself from her chair. She strode to the bar, picked up a napkin, then waggled it in front of Doug.

  ‘You face – you have cappuccino here,’ she shouted, pointing at her own face.

  Doug crossed his eyes to look down; sure enough, a little mound of cappuccino foam was sitting on the tip of his nose. He wiped it off, and felt himself flush with embarrassment.

  ‘Mille grazie,’ he said, then added, ‘Grazie mille,’ just in case he’d got the words the wrong way around.

  ‘You welcome.’ The woman shouted her response despite the fact she was just inches away. ‘You English?’ she asked as she folded herself into the chair opposite Doug’s, uninvited.

  Doug straightened his back. ‘No, I’m Scottish, not English.’

  The woman puffed out cigarette smoke as she spoke. ‘This is very different, I know. I have met Scottish guests before. They tell me.’ To the server, she called, ‘Mario, I have my drink here with Meester . . .’ She paused and looked at Doug.

  ‘Rossi,’ supplied Doug.

  ‘With Meester Rossi,’ she shouted. Dropping her voice a little, she spoke directly to Doug, ‘You have an Italian name, Meester Rossi. It is for red, like you hair.’ She smiled broadly at Doug’s copper waves, then added, ‘You have family here in Firenze? In Florence? You are Fiorentino?’

  Doug replied as clearly as possible, ‘I know it’s where my family came from, but I don’t think any of them are still here, now.’

  ‘So why you come?’

  Doug wasn’t used to anyone being as direct as this woman, and her truncated use of the English language made her seem rather brusque; he felt as though she was telling him off all the time. But he felt oddly freed from what would have been his normal, polite reserve, and saw no harm in talking to an unknown, beautiful woman in a hotel bar. And beautiful she was; he’d noticed that immediately. To his eyes, in any case. She reminded Doug of a champion racehorse; all perfectly proportioned and sleekly put together, but if you studied each feature, she wasn’t what you’d call pretty.

  As Doug was wondering how to explain why he’d come, and why he’d been able to come, he looked at his coffee and decided not to risk another mouthful. When the server brought the woman’s drink, which chinked refreshingly in a fancy crystal glass, he asked what
it was.

  ‘It is a Negroni – you will like it!’ She spoke to the boy, ‘Another Negroni like this, with soda.’ She turned to Doug and declaimed, ‘In the daytime it is better with soda, it will take long to drink. You will like it. It is invented here, in Firenze, in the 1920s. At Casoni Bar. You must take mine. Cin Cin!’

  Doug felt he had little option but to take the glass she was forcing upon him. He sipped the reddish liquid with care, unsure what to expect. His taste buds felt as though they were about to burst; the drink was fragrant and, at first, sweet at the front of his tongue, and on his lips. Then, as he swallowed, a wave of intense bitterness hit him; his mouth felt cleansed. The singed orange peel balanced on the edge of the glass gave the experience an extra dimension, the pungent oils settling in his nose and making the flavor of the drink even more complex.

  ‘It’s like a wee work of art in a glass,’ he said quietly, addressing the drink itself, more than the woman opposite.

  She sat back and looked at Doug through narrowed eyes. ‘You understand what is difficult. Complicated. This is good. So, why you come here, in Firenze?’

  Once again the woman was challenging Doug to give an answer he wasn’t sure of himself. So he just let loose, and told her everything that was whirling about in his head.

  ‘My wife just died, and then I won the lottery. I had to leave my business for a while because otherwise it would be closed down. I own a fish and chip shop. A ristorante.’ He was pleased to show off another Italian word. ‘I thought I’d come to the home of my ancestors to see what it was my family left behind. Oh, and the art here – I’d like to see some art too, and I know there’s a lot of that. I’ve never had much time for art, and I’d like to put that right. In fact, I’ve never had much time for life; it’s all been work, work, work, and I’d like to put that right too. So, here I am.’ He paused and sipped his drink, enjoying the sweet-bitter flavor once again.

  ‘Ah,’ said the woman, lighting another cigarette, ‘you come to fill emptiness. It is a good place to do this. But first you have to learn what is empty, so you know how to fill it up correctly.’ She reached up and took the drink the barman was offering her, and once again ‘Cin, Cin-ed’ then drank.

  Doug smiled. He felt wonderful.

  ‘A wee work of art in a glass? This is good,’ she reflected, returning Doug’s smile.

  Doug rested back into his chair and allowed the Negroni and the late afternoon light to wash over him as the woman spoke.

  ‘Me, I am Antonia – Antonia de Luca. I am from here.’ She waved imperiously, and Doug took her words to mean she was from Florence. ‘I leave when I am young, but I come back, and now I cannot leave again or they change the place, and I do not want this. I must stay now to find my inheritance from my family. If they change the house my chance will go away. I must not let them do this.’

  Doug was confused; deciding he should be as direct as she’d been, he asked, ‘Do you mean you come from this villa? You own the hotel?’

  Antonia laughed her throaty laugh. ‘Ah, if only I owned this place.’ She smiled and put her drink onto the glass table that lay between them. She leaned toward Doug. ‘My great-grandfather, he build this house for my great-grandmother around one hundred and fifty years ago – they are very wealthy people. My grandfather and my father, they are born here, just above us –’ she pointed to the ornately painted ceiling – ‘but my father he is only good at spending money, not like my grandfather who is good at making money. So my fortune is not so good. But my father, even though he is not good at business, he is still a clever man. Like a fox, yes?’ Doug nodded. ‘He pretends to spend all his money so the government cannot get it in taxes. They want it, they chased him for it – but I know that somewhere here at the villa, he leave something of value for his little ones. I can live here if I want to, because of the contract my father signs with the people who buy the villa, and if I live here I can say what can and what cannot be changed. But, if I do not live here, they can do as they wish. So it is my home, but it is not my house. Maybe it is a little like my prison. Do you see?’

  Doug thought it was a very odd arrangement, but said he understood. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live in a place that had once been your family home but now housed strangers. Especially since the poor woman didn’t sound as though she really wanted to be there at all.

  ‘Does it bother you to have your home being a hotel?’ he asked, feeling like an interloper.

  ‘Not when the guests are handsome and interesting like you, Meester Rossi.’ Antonia smiled and winked at Doug as she sipped her drink. Doug felt hot. She continued, her voice running like treacle over Doug’s senses, ‘Tonight I have friends here for my birthday. You join us.’ It didn’t sound like a question or an invitation, it sounded like an order.

  The thought terrified Doug. ‘Oh thank you, but I don’t think I could,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Do not think, Meester Rossi, just do. Life is too short to think too much. We waste too much time thinking.’ She paused, then added, ‘I think this!’ and laughed at her own little joke.

  Doug laughed too; she was funny. As they were both laughing, like old friends, the manager who’d greeted Doug upon his arrival approached and whispered something in Italian to Antonia. She nodded and pushed herself out of her chair.

  ‘Pronto,’ she barked at the manager, who sped off. She turned to Doug, who had sprung to his feet, and said, ‘I go. Arrangements for tonight do not go well, and I must have all things as I want them. I will see you in the ballroom at eight – this is when we begin. Formal dress, of course. I see you then.’ She held out her hand in front of Doug and, unsure what to do next, he shook it vigorously. This seemed to amuse Antonia, who made her way toward the main foyer, trailing a long chiffon scarf behind her.

  The only clear thought in Doug’s head was that he didn’t have a thing to wear to a formal birthday party for an impoverished Italian woman of high birth, that would take place in an ornate gold-and-marble ballroom in just a few hours’ time. He cried plaintively to the barman, ‘Do you know where I can rent an entire formal get-up for this evening?’

  ‘Si,’ said the barman, and – for some reason – Doug wasn’t at all surprised.

  The next couple of hours passed in a blur. First, Doug was packed into a car at the steps of the hotel and delivered like a parcel to a tiny shop in a narrow side street somewhere on the outskirts of Florence, which the hotel’s manager had arranged to stay open until he arrived. The two assistants there spoke little English, yet outfitted him perfectly with evening attire, and somehow managed to convince him to buy some slacks and shirts, as well as a linen suit, which they insisted flattered him. While his purchased clothes, and rented ones, were being prepared, he was directed to a nearby antique shop where he selected an apparently ancient Venetian glass perfume bottle as a birthday gift for Antonia.

  By seven thirty, Doug was sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, bathed, shaved, dressed, and ready to go. He found himself as nervous as a bridegroom, and almost as excited. He didn’t understand why he was acting as he was, everything was so out of character for him, but he was enjoying every moment.

  As Doug entered the ballroom, at eight o’clock sharp, he saw Antonia some distance away, kissing a short, bald man on the cheeks. As Doug’s eyes met hers, his hostess called in her deep voice, ‘Meester Rossi – my friend. Welcome!’

  The twenty or so pairs of eyes in the room that turned to look at Doug saw a slim, red-headed man of average height, stunningly attired in a narrow-lapelled, double-breasted evening jacket, bearing an elaborately packaged gift box, and wearing a beaming smile. They watched him cross the room, hardly aware there was anyone in it except their guest of honor. Had he been able to understand it, Doug would have been surprised at the discreet buzz of exchanges in the room – all of which were variations on the theme that Antonia had been keeping some sort of secret.

  Antonia kissed Doug on both cheeks, some
thing that had never happened to him before, and he caught her scent as she did so; it was a heady bouquet that reminded him of the roses in his grandmother’s garden, and it suited her exotic dark looks perfectly. It even seemed to have a hint of wine about it, which matched her sheath-like, claret evening gown. She smiled as she took the gift he offered and said, ‘You should not give me a gift – but I thank you. I will open all gifts later, after dinner. See, I put it here.’ She steered Doug to a long, low table where she placed his gift with several other packages.

  ‘Champagne, Meester Rossi – or do you have another name?’

  He replied almost breathlessly, ‘Douglas, or Doug – whatever you prefer,’ even though no one but his mother had called him Douglas since he was a child.

  ‘Doog? Darg?’ Antonia pronounced his name awkwardly. ‘It is not a good name – I prefer Doo-glass – I will call you Doo-glass,’ and it was settled; Doug was introduced as Dooglass, with a heavy emphasis on the second syllable. With his freshly minted name, Doug felt like a different person, and acted like one. His presence was taken as an opportunity by those he met to practice their English, and he found himself entranced by the varying accents and amusing difficulties with translation. All the time Antonia was at his side, allowing him to be at ease with these people, who were obviously weighing him up with every glance, and each question.

  Within thirty minutes he’d met everyone, and a mixture of poor translation and fevered gossip had established him as a recently widowed Scottish restaurateur, who was independently wealthy and had come to Florence to search out impoverished ancestors whose lives he wished to improve. Blissfully unaware of this misrepresentation, Doug chatted as best he could to everyone he met; he even dared to hope the expression on Antonia’s face meant she was impressed by his manner as he did so. When the gong sounded for dinner, his hostess scooped him up and insisted he sat beside her. An array of magnificent dishes were brought to the grand table, where they were consumed slowly, and with much conversation. Each course pleased Doug’s increasingly appreciative palate, and was paired with a wine that heightened his enjoyment. As they ate and drank Antonia explained each dish for him, telling him how it was prepared, and in which ways herbs and spices had been used to give layers of flavor . . . and Doug fell deeper under her spell than he could ever have imagined. By the end of the sumptuous meal Doug was a little tipsy, and head over heels in love with Antonia de Luca. He knew, with certainty, he was experiencing the most perfect night of his life.