“Come with you where?” I asked as my heart flipped over. In my pre-Richard days, I would have gone anywhere with a man like Massimo. Anywhere.
“To find Denise and Evelyn. I am tracking them through Rome. And we can have you…run into them by accident…”
“You mean follow them and then I pretend to be randomly running into them?”
“Yes, and then you lure them back to the Sheraton. The police already set up the conference room with hidden audio and video equipment to record everything.” Massimo sounded increasingly confident as he poured oil onto his rusty English.
“But Sophia told us not to come back until next week. She said that the event was postponed.”
“Not anymore. Not for your group. You will still design a dress for Sophia Pucci. The Cannes Film Festival hasn’t been cancelled because of one man’s tragic death,” Massimo said gravely. “She still wants a dress. And she still wants publicity. If anything, this murder will give her the publicity she was craving.”
“I don’t think so,” I protested. “She seemed pretty upset today. Like her whole plan had been ruined. Kind of like Tomaso’s death was an inconvenience.” I shuddered, remembering how callous the drama queen had behaved.
“All publicity is good. Even bad publicity,” Massimo said wryly. “Sophia Pucci will be fine. Better than fine. Before, she was just going to be a guest at the festival, but now she will be the star. And that’s exactly the way she likes it.”
Chills ran through me as Massimo spoke, but they weren’t from the attraction I felt to him. Swallowing audibly, I whispered, “You paint Sophia Pucci to be a very shallow person. Is it possible that she could have had Tomaso killed in order to bring attention to herself?”
Chapter 4
Massimo’s full-lipped smirk was so enigmatic that I couldn’t tell whether he was mocking me or agreeing with me. Fluorescent light outlined his features, revealing a seductive 5 o’clock shadow that fair haired Richard never had. I looked away from my Roman temptation, not wanting to fall into decadence and decline like the ancient city had.
“You have a suspicious mind, Gianna. You’re going to be a great detective,” Massimo commented, his smirk twisting into alluring curves.
“I’m not a detective. I’m a fashion designer,” I reminded him, still not meeting his dangerous eyes.
“Well starting now, you’re going to be a detective,” he insisted as I forced a semi grin.
I wanted to tell him that even Shaggy and Scooby Doo would make better crime solvers than me, but I kept my mouth shut. Massimo had probably never heard of the cartoon duo and would jump to the conclusion that I’m an idiot for mentioning them.
“So what do you say, Gianna? I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at 8:30 tomorrow morning? Va bene?”
“Sure, I guess. But whatever investigating I help the police with has to be finished within a week. I have a plane ticket back to New York exactly 7 days from today, and I can’t afford to extend my trip,” I told him candidly.
“I’m sure Tomaso’s family would pay you to stay in Italy a little longer if they feel you are making progress solving their son’s murder.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have a business to run back in New York. I can’t stay away longer than my two scheduled weeks.”
“What kind of business? A dress shop?” Massimo inquired curiously.
“No, not exactly. I’m a tailor,” I couldn’t suppress a sigh. No matter how delicious it sounded to call myself a fashion designer, the truth was that I was a tailor who snipped up and restitched outfits for a living. Suddenly, the pipe dream of being Sophia Pucci’s personal designer seemed as unlikely as starring alongside Julia Roberts in her next blockbuster.
“Tailor is a very respected career in Italy,” Massimo asserted, perceiving my negativity.
“I know.” I grinned in earnest. “A lot of Italian immigrants came to New York in the early twentieth century and set up tailor shops. I guess I’m carrying on the tradition.”
“You are an Italian beauty,” Massimo breathed like an incantation as I averted my eyes to the eggshell white wall.
Instead of mumbling, I have a boyfriend, and embarrassing myself for not being able to accept a little compliment, I glanced at my cell phone clock and feigned shock. “Oh, look how late it is! I have to get going.”
Massimo’s face darkened as he nodded curtly. “I will see you tomorrow morning at 8:30. Sharp. In the lobby.”
Bolting out of his chair, Massimo left the room abruptly as I cringed inwardly. What a clumsy way to reject a compliment. It would have been better if I had told him about Richard. Feeling like a jackass, I collected my purse and headed to the elevator. Maybe a little room service order of fried calamari with spicy dipping sauce would make me feel better.
***
Massimo was already in the lobby when I arrived there punctually at 8:27 the next morning. Facing the road, he stared through the glass doors with his hands in his pockets. He looked so pensive that I didn’t want to disturb him. My boots tapped loudly in the echoing lobby as I approached him from behind.
He swiftly turned around, appraising me in my skin tight slacks and curve hugging blouse. “Buona mattina,” he clipped.
“Good morning to you,” I replied, trying to sound cheerful and atone for my previous rude behavior.
“There’s been a change of plans. We’re going directly to the Sheraton this morning,” he informed, waving for me to walk ahead of him as we left the hotel.
“Really? Why?”
“Don’t worry about why. Just worry about getting as much information as you can from Denise and Evelyn,” Massimo said gruffly, opening the door to a black Fiat.
“They’re going to be there?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat and noting 2 cigar stubs and an empty coffee cup near the gear shift. The smoky aroma permeated the car’s interior, sending me into a reverie of my late father who had adored lighting up potent Cuban cigars and smoking them after supper.
“I hope you don’t mind the smell of cigars,” Massimo said with a huff.
“Oh not at all. My father used to smoke them. I love…” I stopped myself, apprehensive to share any personal information with the stranger.
“Good. Anyway, yes, the women will be there. Along with Sophia of course. She’s been informed of the plan, but Denise and Evelyn have not,” Massimo revealed, veering onto the gridlocked main road.
“So I guess you didn’t take my idea seriously, then,” I mused.
“What idea? That Sophia Pucci is the murderer?” Massimo chuckled condescendingly, reaching for his coffee cup and swearing in Italian when he found it empty. “It was an interesting theory, I have to admit, but not very probable.”
“You really do speak English very well,” I commented, wondering why he had been so unsure of himself the day before. “You said you lived in London?”
“Yes, I went to college there. Lived there for 4 years. But that was more than a decade ago, and I speak Italian all the time, so it’s hard to keep my English fresh,” Massimo sighed, cranking the window down and allowing a breeze to mix with the cigar remnants.
“It seems pretty fresh to me,” I observed, watching the sights in slow motion. The rush hour traffic was the perfect opportunity for me to capture a leisurely view of Rome…without a ticking taxi cab meter stressing me out.
“Thanks. Now let me brief you on what I need you to do.” Massimo glanced over at me and waited for me to meet his gaze.
Taking my eyes off a charming brick oven pizzeria, I fixed my gaze on a more distressingly charming sight. “I’m listening. Io ascolto,” I emphasized in Italian.
“Bene. Sophia’s auditions for the dress designers, and only the dress designers, will resume today. You’re going to introduce me to everyone as your boyfriend.”
“My what?!” I cried, startled.
“Your boyfriend,” Massimo repeated calmly. “That will explain why I’m at your side all day. Otherwise, I’ll just look like a
lurking pervert.” His eyes glittered with naughtiness as I turned away again and stared out the window.
“This is ridiculous,” I argued. “So now you want me to be both an investigator and an actress? Why don’t you just pretend to be Sophia’s boyfriend? She shouldn’t have a problem with the role.”
“Sophia is 46. I’m 34. It wouldn’t be realistic for us to be a couple.”
“Why not? Can’t she have a boy toy? She has everything else! Besides, that’s not such a huge age difference.”
“In Italy it is,” Massimo insisted.
“But not if we were talking about a man being 12 years older than a woman. That would be perfectly normal, right?” I was getting riled up now, my American ideologies always trumping my Italian roots.
“As much as I’d love to have a feminist debate with you,” Massimo drawled sarcastically, “this really isn’t the time.”
My eyes blazed at him, but I didn’t press the issue. “Fine,” I submitted. “You’re my boyfriend. Where did we meet?”
“In New York. You are from Manhattan, right?”
“No, I’m from West Nyack. It’s a suburb about an hour away from Manhattan.”
“West Nyack?” Massimo echoed blankly. “Never heard of it. But okay, West Nyack. And we’ve been together for a year.”
I cringed at the irony, reminded of my real one-year anniversary that was right around the corner. What would Richard think if he knew I was driving around Rome with some suave private investigator trying to solve a homicide of a Spanish Casanova I had only met once? I shuddered to think how upset he would be at the crazy situation I had landed myself in.
“Okay, here we are.” Massimo swerved into the Sheraton parking lot, deftly parking the sleek Fiat and turning off the engine. “Any questions?”
“Yeah, only about a million,” I grumbled, reaching for the door handle.
“Relax. You’re doing a good thing, Gianna. We’re going to get this murderer. Maybe not today, but soon.”
Nodding as a response, I climbed out of the car and summoned a deep breath. To my horror, Massimo circled the car to where I was standing and interlaced my fingers with his. I pierced him with a deadly glare, but he seemed unaffected.
“We’re in character now. And we can’t break character, no matter what,” Massimo said firmly as I limply held his hand, trying not to notice how powerful and smooth his grip was.
We strolled into the ballroom hand in hand as I fought to keep my cool. “There you are! We’ve been waiting for you!” A voice called. I looked up, recognizing the chiseled features of Leonard, Sophia’s British assistant.
“Hi Leonard,” I greeted, wondering if he also knew about the plan to corner Denise and Evelyn. Massimo nudged me as I shot him another warning stare before saying, “Leonard, this is my boyfriend, Massimo.”
Now it was Massimo’s turn to give me a menacing look. Immediately, I realized the reason for his anger. I should have invented a name. Stupid me. I had introduced a private investigator and given away his real name. I matched Massimo’s toxic look as if to say, ‘you should have given me more instructions! I’m doing the best I can over here!’
“Nice to meet you, Massimo. And don’t worry, Sophia already told me who you really are.” Leonard said amiably, shaking his hand. “Will you be joining us today?”
“Sophia told you?” Massimo demanded furiously. “That’s just great. Let’s keep it quiet.”
“Of course,” Leonard replied coolly.
“Anyway, I wanted to see Gianna in action,” Massimo said without a hint of theatre. The man had clearly done a lot of undercover role playing in his life. “And I thought it would be nice to meet the great Sophia Pucci too.”
“Yes, Sophia is a pearl,” Leonard said dutifully. “I’m sure she’ll sign an autograph for you.”
“Great,” Massimo replied. “Now where should we go?”
Leonard pointed to a dark corner of the room where Denise and Evelyn were deep in conversation. “The other dress designers are already working with their mannequins over there. Or at least they’re supposed to be.” Leonard frowned. “Looks like they’re gossiping. Silly women. Anyway, there’s an array of fabrics and beads and sequins and so forth available for Gianna to work with. Sophia will be here a bit later on to assess the fashions.”
“Okay, thanks Leonard,” Massimo said, flashing a flawless smile.
Denise and Evelyn glanced up curiously as I glided towards them with Massimo still gripping my hand. “Hey girls,” I called casually.
“Hey,” Denise replied, unabashedly raking her eyes up and down the length of Massimo’s body. “And who is this?”
“I’m Gianna’s boyfriend,” Massimo took the lead as both women continued to hawk him. “But just pretend I’m not here. Do your designing and ignore me.”
“I don’t know how anyone could ignore you,” Denise muttered under her breath.
Ignoring the swooning woman, I flipped open my sketch pad and reacquainted myself with the red mermaid dress I had designed for Sophia. Crimson fabrics and metallic decorations beckoned from the table like gifts under the tree on Christmas morning. Forgetting about the investigation for a moment, I returned to the real reason I had come to Italy: to launch my career. Humming softly, I caressed the fabrics and pictured each one wrapped around Sophia Pucci’s voluptuous body.
Denise snuck up alongside me and whispered like a hissing boa constrictor. “Your boyfriend is gorgeous! Even hotter than Tomaso, if that’s possible!”
“Thanks,” I faked a smile and kept my eyes on the materials.
“You know what?” She whispered in a lower king cobra hiss.
“What?”
“I think I know who murdered him.”
Chapter 5
Denise was hovering so close to me that I could smell her breath, cold and clean like Doublemint gum. I sensed Massimo moving towards us to eavesdrop on the exchange. Supposedly, the whole ballroom had been bugged with equipment, so even if he couldn’t decipher Denise’s hissing, any clues she provided would be recorded.
“Really? Who?” I tried to sound calm, though my nerves were splitting apart.
“I shouldn’t even say it,” Denise waffled, drawing into herself. “You’ll just think I’m crazy.”
“No I won’t,” I assured. “Who do you think it was? Evelyn?” I went out on a limb as Denise looked at me with astonishment.
“No! What makes you say that?”
“Um, I don’t know. Forget what I said. Just tell me who you think it is.”
Denise took a pregnant pause, looking deep into my chocolate eyes as though trying to discern whether she could trust me. Massimo stood a few feet away with his back to us, but I knew he was listening. “Okay. I’ll just say it. I think it was Sophia!”
I flinched, taken aback that Denise had the same instinct that I had. Massimo had laughed off my supposition that Sophia Pucci could be the killer, but maybe it wasn’t so humorous after all. “Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because I checked her out online. Hundreds of pages about her acting career came up early in the search results. But if you keep going, you’ll find out something very shady about her history,” Denise whispered, sounding more like a conspiratorial schoolgirl now than a snake.
“Shady how? Does she have a criminal record?”
“Not exactly. But she had an early marriage. Apparently, she got married at 21 and was a widow by the time she was 22,” Denise unveiled.
“That’s terrible! Was her husband young too?”
“Yes. He was 23. His name was Aldo and he was also an aspiring actor. Aldo took Sophia on vacation to Capri where he supposedly fell off a cliff and accidentally died. But conspiracy theorists claim that Sophia actually pushed him because she didn’t want to be married,” Denise relayed grimly.
“But maybe those theories were put out there on the internet by rival actresses who are bitter about losing roles to her over the years. The internet is so anonymous. You nev
er know who you’re dealing with,” I suggested diplomatically, although Denise’s story wasn’t an outlandish one. It was entirely possible that she could have pushed her young groom to his death and gotten away with it all these years.
“That’s true. But Sophia has never remarried. Married life obviously wasn’t for her.”
“Maybe she was too brokenhearted and traumatized from losing Aldo,” I pointed out.
“Maybe. But maybe not,” Denise replied. “Maybe she’s just a man-eater and uses men for her purposes. And disposes of them when they no longer serve a purpose.”
“But she just met Tomaso. Are you suggesting they had an affair and she got tired of him after less than a week?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that her history has some stains in it. And I don’t trust the woman,” Denise said definitively as Massimo stood as immobile as Michelangelo’s Statue of David, presumably absorbing every word of the conversation.
“To be honest, I thought maybe Sophia did it too. But for other reasons. I thought maybe it was some kind of extreme publicity stunt to thrust her into the spotlight,” I said, feeling guilty for concocting such a cruel hypothesis.
Denise’s eyes widened. “Actually, that’s not so farfetched! Sophia is a complete narcissist. And she’s getting older. There won’t be as many parts for her in the future. Maybe she’s getting desperate.”
“Maybe,” I agreed as Massimo finally turned around and inserted himself in our discussion.
“Bella,” he addressed me as my shoulders stiffened. “Could I speak with you alone for a moment?”
“Of course,” I breezed. “Excuse us, Denise.”
Taking my hand, he guided me out of the ballroom into a quiet hallway. “Well, now I’m even more suspicious of Denise,” he said in a bass tone.
“Of Denise? Why?” I was completely perplexed. If anything, Denise’s theorizing about Tomaso’s death had made me eliminate her as a suspect.
“Why?” He seemed surprised by my question. “Because she’s trying to divert attention away from herself! By implicating Sophia, she’s making herself look innocent, don’t you see?”
A Fashion Felon in Rome Page 3