“I don’t think—” Leo began.
“Professor Benedict, it’ll be fine. If I had to go somewhere like Transylvania or something, you could be justifiably concerned. But it’s Florence. It’s home. And Dad’s there. Nothing will happen.”
Leo was quiet for a long time. “You know what? I’ll come with you. I want to see Ethan. Olivia will understand.”
She probably would. She was the most pragmatic, unruffled person I’d ever met, the polar opposite of Leo’s mercurial first wife.
“All right,” I said. “We can meet at the airport.”
I picked up my laptop and started searching for flights. “Gatwick to Pisa?” I asked. “Leaving at nine in the morning, returning Sunday at four. We can go by Claire’s place and talk with Ethan. Then we spend one night with Dad and we’ll be back in London in time for dinner on Sunday. Besides, Dad will be happy to see us.”
“That works. I hope Ethan turns up. I’d like to know what the heck is going on.”
“Me too. But even if he doesn’t, we’ll leave the book with Claire. I don’t want to miss any time at work.”
I made my tea and carried it to the table, careful to place it far from the Della Pittura.
“I can’t miss work either,” Leo said. “We have spring exams coming up and I have a veritable Everest of paper on my desk. I’m off to grab some sleep. I’ll have an earlier start than you. See you at the check-in desk.”
When Leo rang off, I checked the online timetable for the Gatwick Express, the fast train that ran from central London to the airport, and then I booked a taxi to take me to Victoria Station. My eyes were itchy with fatigue, but I managed to pack a change of clothes into an overnight duffel bag, as well as a pair of PJ bottoms and one of Josh’s T-shirts to sleep in. I nestled the book on top of the clothes and then changed my mind, took it back out, removed the kidskin pouch and hid it at the bottom of my handbag underneath my passport. I put the book back in the overnight duffle bag. With everything ready, I set several alarms for five a.m. before collapsing, fully dressed, on to my bed. If I were lucky, I’d catch a few hours’ sleep.
It was still dark when the alarms went off, and I woke, groggy and discombobulated, wondering why I’d slept in my clothes. The events of the previous evening came back to me like the memory of a wild dream. I checked my phone. There was nothing from Ethan. While I made tea and toast, I called Claire, but she didn’t answer. I’d have to keep trying her from the road.
The taxi arrived just as I finished a phone call to my father. An early riser, he didn’t even seem surprised to hear from me before dawn on a Saturday morning. When I said I was coming for a short visit, he sounded disappointed, and I realized he thought I intended to cancel my Easter trip. “I’m still coming that weekend and so is the rest of the family,” I said. “Today, I have to drop something off in Florence. It’ll only take an hour or two.”
“So why’s Leo coming?” he asked.
“I’ll explain it when we get there. Have to dash, Dad. Love you.”
As I ran down the three flights of stairs to the waiting taxi, I couldn’t help thinking that I should still be snuggled under my duvet, looking forward to coffee, binge-watching the History channel and maybe a run in Hyde Park. But here I was dashing off to Florence on the basis of a baffling text from Ethan. It was crazy, but then the whole previous evening felt like a headlong plunge down a rabbit hole.
I got into the taxi, and we set out under grey skies. The rain had stopped but the air was damp and chilly. Twice, we had to stop for roadworks, the construction sites lit up with bright lights.
“Why are they doing repairs on a weekend?” complained the taxi driver, a beefy man with a strong Cockney accent, who could have been a bouncer in his spare time. I guessed he would have been equally unhappy with roadworks on a Monday or Friday. At least we didn’t have any commute traffic to contend with, but still the delays were bad enough to make me worry that I’d miss the train. I checked my watch several times as we drove along Grosvenor Place, deserted at this time of day. After another frustrating stop half a mile from the station, we took off again and pulled into Victoria with a couple of minutes to spare. I threw some money at the driver and jogged across the concourse to my platform.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Express arrived on time at Gatwick, where I took my place at the back of a queue to go through security. Leo, predictably, hadn’t arrived yet. The line inched forward, but there was no sign of him. I’d passed through security and was checking the signs for my gate number when my phone rang.
“Kate, it’s Leo. Bloody car died on the M25. I’m waiting for a tow truck.”
“Oh no, Leo. I’m sorry.”
“You’d better go ahead without me. The towing company’s saying it’ll take an hour to get a truck out here. They’ll haul it back to Oxford. Will you be okay?”
“Of course. I’ll go straight to Dad’s and I’ll ring you when I arrive. I hope you get home okay.”
After an uneventful flight, we landed in Pisa, and I stood in the passport line fighting off a wave of fatigue even though I’d slept on the plane for a while. Italian airports always smelled the same to me, a subtle mix of perfume, smoke, and leather. If someone could bottle it, I’d keep it on hand for whenever I felt homesick for Italy.
Around me, a few auras circled over my fellow passengers. Were they oblivious to their impending fate, or did they know they were on borrowed time, aware of the heart slowing down or some dreadful disease tightening its grip?
There was nothing I could do for them, but still the auras weighed on me. I was relieved when I reached the front of the queue. The border control officer was cute and flirted with me, making a joke about my outdated passport photo. Eight years ago, I was still at university, my dark brown hair was six inches longer than it was now, and even in the formal pose required for the photo, I looked more relaxed and happy than I currently felt. After he’d wished me a lovely stay in his wonderful country, he sent me on my way. Emerging into the main concourse of the small airport, I headed outside to find a taxi. It was a perfect spring afternoon, with blue sky, and a light breeze ruffling the umbrella pines that dotted the lawns in front of the terminal.
I joined the back of the queue, which moved quickly as several gleaming Mercedes taxis gathered up their passengers and moved on. When it was my turn, I watched in dismay as a battered Fiat drew up in front of me. Just my luck. Although I hung back, hoping the driver would move on, he jumped out to take my duffle bag, wresting it from me in his enthusiasm. The passenger seat was piled high with old newspapers and three mobile phones, and I guessed the boot must be in the same state because he put my duffle on the back seat next to me. A plastic Madonna bobbed above the rear-view mirror, barely visible through the blue smog that filled the interior. Fortunately, the driver threw his cigarette stub away and opened his window a few inches before asking me where we were going. He told me his name was Taddeo.
As soon as we set off, he picked up one of his mobiles, where it remained glued to his ear. He didn’t do much listening though. He talked non-stop in rapid, staccato Italian. Although I missed a few words, I soon became intimately acquainted with his health problems and his fractious relationship with his wife and her relatives. I wished I’d remembered to bring my headphones so I could listen to music on my phone.
I’d unsuccessfully called Claire’s number on the train to Gatwick and again before boarding my flight. Now I tried again, but there was no answer. What would I do if she didn’t turn up before I had to leave on Sunday afternoon? She might be out of town for the weekend or for a month. And where was Ethan? He still wasn’t answering texts or calls. Coming here seemed insane now, an ill thought-out gesture of good faith in Ethan with little chance of success.
We were on the PI-FI, the main road to Florence, when I noticed Taddeo checking his mirrors. Curious, I twisted around to look out of the back window. The car behind us kept flashing its headlights, and the driver was gesticulating wi
ldly.
“I’m going to pull off at the next exit,” Taddeo said. “We may have a flat tire or something’s falling off the bottom of the car.”
Given the state of the little Fiat, that wouldn’t surprise me. I was eager to get off the autostrada before anything catastrophic happened but, like many other stretches of motorway in Italy, this one had no hard shoulder. With nowhere to stop, we traveled another ten kilometers before coming to an exit.
We crawled up the off-ramp to a roundabout at the top and pulled over on a quiet side road. The driver who’d been flashing his lights had followed and parked behind the Fiat. I was surprised our good samaritan had come to give us a helping hand.
“Wait here. I’ll try to get this fixed as quick as I can.”
Taddeo got out and slammed the door, making the whole car vibrate. I closed my eyes, enjoying a moment of silence after the jarring ride and his non-stop chatter. A minute later, the back door opened, and a man in a black coat leaned in. Before I could react, he grabbed my duffle from the seat beside me. I bolted upright and yelled, but he took off at a sprint, racing towards his car. I scrambled after him, ran a couple of steps and tripped over the taxi driver, who was lying on the ground, holding his stomach and groaning. The thief must have hit him.
For a microsecond, I thought of getting up and chasing after him to try to retrieve my bag. But common sense kicked in. Instead, I crouched next to Taddeo and took my phone out of my coat pocket. It took a while for my brain to settle enough to remember the Italian emergency number. 112. By the time I’d dialed it, the other car had shot away, the engine revving. Too late, I realized I should have noted his license plate.
It didn’t take long for a police car to arrive, with flashing lights and a scream of sirens. For all the drama of the arrival, however, the officers’ examination of the crime scene was perfunctory at best. They took statements from me and Taddeo, who’d recovered enough to sit up and smoke a cigarette. He muttered his outrage in between puffs, berating the thug who’d had the nerve to punch him and steal from his passenger. “Never,” he said. “I’ve been driving a taxi for twenty years and I’ve never been attacked before.”
I sympathized with him. I was furious about being lured off the road and robbed in broad daylight.
The officers were kind, but warned me not to expect to see my bag again. “We’ve had a rash of these autostrada robberies in the area,” one of them said with a sigh. “These thieves get more brazen every day. They steal and they run. We rarely catch them.”
Although the assault was unnerving, I was relieved at first that the thief had grabbed the overnight duffle, not my shoulder bag, which held my purse and passport. Losing those would have given me major problems. The relief soon passed, however, as it sunk in that the book had gone, the book that Ethan seemed to care so much about, and the reason for my visit to Florence. I wasn’t looking forward to telling him I’d lost it. Thank goodness I’d kept the key in my bag. At least I’d have something to give him.
When Taddeo declared himself well enough to continue the journey, I got in the car. The back seat felt empty now without my duffle bag for company. As well as the book, my make-up and clothes were gone, including my favorite pair of jeans. But there was nothing to be done, other than get to Claire’s place to find out what was going on.
For the remainder of the trip, Taddeo drove more slowly with no mobile in his hand. He gripped the wheel as though that would protect us from further harm and glanced often into his rearview mirror. I checked too, occasionally, for any sign that we were being followed, but saw nothing.
We arrived without incident at the outskirts of Florence, where the red dome of the great cathedral came into view, lifting my spirits. All was not lost. I’d still be able to give Claire and Ethan the key. And I’d have a nice dinner with Dad with a good bottle of Sangiovese from his wine cellar.
After leaving the autostrada, the little Fiat easily navigated the narrow winding roads that led towards my father’s house, a yellow stucco villa that stood at the edge of a small town south of Florence.
Dad was waiting for me at the gate. “No luggage?” he asked, giving me a tight hug.
“It’s a long story.”
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Leo rang an hour ago. He can’t come after all. It’s too bad about the breakdown. That Land Rover of his is rubbish. It’s time for him to get a new car, I told him.”
“I’ll bet I know what he said to that. Professors don’t make enough money to buy petrol, let alone a new vehicle.”
Leo only had the senescent Land Rover because Dad had offered it to him before moving to Italy. Before that, he’d driven an equally antiquated Volvo he’d won in a bet just before he graduated.
We crossed the paved driveway to the front door and Dad put his hand on my arm.
“Brace yourself.”
I heard a clatter on the hall tiles and, seconds later, an eighty-pound chocolate-colored projectile flew towards me.
“This is Bianca,” Dad said. “I adopted her a couple of weeks ago. She’d been abandoned.”
Bianca licked my hand and then sat down in front of me, panting with a wide-open mouth that looked like a smile.
“She’s gorgeous.” I patted her on the head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to make sure she settled in and that she’d be happy here. So it was best not to say anything prematurely. She’s a labrador mix.”
“She certainly looks happy.”
Dad looked happy too, I realized. The slump in his shoulders was less pronounced, and I thought that maybe he’d put on some of the weight he’d lost after my mum died. He’d let his greying hair grow a little longer than usual. His denim blue eyes, the same color as mine, sparkled.
With Bianca at our heels, we went into the living room where the sun laid slabs of warm yellow on the pale limestone floor. The room looked as it always had. Dark antique furniture stood against creamy walls that held framed pictures of my family. I’d taken some of them myself. Open French windows led to a terrace overlooking the garden. It wasn’t warm, but the air was clear and, after the constant rain in London, it felt positively balmy. Standing out in the sunlight, I surveyed the garden, which was ready to burst into bloom.
“It rained all week,” Dad said. “The sun came out specially for you. Take a seat, and I’ll bring us some tea.”
Bianca lay under the coffee table and was asleep within seconds. If only I could fall asleep that easily. Still unsettled by the assault in the taxi, I stood up and wandered round the room, coming to rest in front of the photos on the wall. In the middle was a picture of my family. I don’t know who took it, because we were all in it. Mum and Dad, Leo and me— and Toby. I felt my throat close up. Little Toby was holding my hand and grinning that goofy grin of his. I must have been about ten. He’d have been two, and this would be just a few months before the accident. I flinched as my stomach contracted. How could something that happened twenty years ago still have the power to inflict so much pain? I took several deep breaths. It was a managing tool I’d taught myself to use whenever the memories bubbled up. Today, it didn’t seem to be working. Perhaps the stress of yesterday evening and the theft of the duffle and the book had weakened my usual defenses.
Dad brought in tea and biscotti. He paused, still holding the tray, when he saw me looking at the pictures.
“Are you okay, pet?”
I blinked tears away before turning to face him. “Yes.” I managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
“So what happened with the luggage?” he asked as he put the tray on the coffee table. “Did the airline lose it?”
“No. It was stolen.”
He looked up at me. “Stolen? Where?”
I related the story of the man who’d tricked us into leaving the main road. “He took my duffle bag, but my laptop wasn’t in it, thank goodness. This is such a short trip, I decided to manage without it. Just as well, as it turns out.”
“Goodne
ss, Kate. That’s terrifying. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. He nabbed my bag and drove off.” I didn’t say anything about him hitting the taxi driver.
Dad shook his head. “It’s sad that we have to be so careful. You think someone’s trying to help you, but they’re not. I’ve heard of this happening before.” He peered at me. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Absolutely, I promise. I was upset and then I was angry. The police don’t think I’ll ever see my bag again.”
I decided not to mention the book or my increasing suspicion that the robber had targeted me. Had he known the book was in my bag?
“So what’s the business thing you have to deal with?” Dad asked. He poured tea and handed me the plate of biscotti. They were pistachio, my favorite.
I’d considered this on the flight over and now settled for parts of the truth. “Ethan Hamilton needed to get some papers to his sister in a hurry so I volunteered. It gave me a chance to see you.”
“His father’s accident was a terrible thing,” Dad said. “I sent my condolences. I haven’t seen Ethan for years, not since he went to the States. How’s he doing?”
“He’s doing fine. Considering.”
“I saw Claire recently though. When I was buying vegetables at the Mercato Centrale. She recognized me and came over to say hello. Says she’s got a job in the restoration department at the Uffizi.” He broke a piece off his biscotti. “Didn’t you two have a falling out once?”
“Hmm.”
I didn’t really want to rehash all that. Claire and I had comported ourselves well at her father’s funeral, both of us willing to forget our old quarrel.
“It was a silly teenage girl drama,” I said. “Perhaps we can take Bianca for a walk?”
The dog’s eyes flew open when I uttered the magic word. Dad must have been training her in English. It was good to stroll through the narrow streets of the village, with its white stuccoed houses and red tile roofs. I caught up with the local news and chatted to neighbors, who all made a fuss of Bianca. When we got home, we made a mess in the big kitchen, chopping vegetables for salad and cooking risotto ai frutti de mare.
The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) Page 4