Italy to Die For

by Loretta Giacoletto

  After crawling through the stinking mess to where Margo lay, I found her neck with my shaky fingers, trailing them from one ear to the other. Nothing wet and sticky which to my relief meant no blood where it didn’t belong … ugh, just the thought of that mess turned my stomach. Backtracking along Margo’s neck, I applied pressure until I located a pulse, strong though pounding faster than fluid fingers striking a laptop keyboard. My heart was pounding too, fast enough to make me regret every rotten thought or word I’d ever laid on my gorgeous sis. Digging my fingers into her shoulder, I spoke through a burst of involuntary sobs.

  “For the love of … god and all that’s holy … please … please, don’t go comatose on me.”

  Moments later a soft moan blipped from her lips. Then she sputtered out an emphatic, “Shouldn’t you be screaming for help?”

  “Right, I forgot and now it’s too late. He’s gone.”

  “He … who?”

  “How should I know, you’re the one who saw him.”

  “Only the knife in his hand,” she said, lifting her body onto one elbow.

  “What about your handbag?”

  “Uh-h, still wrapped around my shoulder and wrist, damn I’m good.”

  I got to my feet and using both hands, pulled Margo to hers. Clinging to each other like two scared kids, we walked across the piazza to Lorenzo’s apartment. During that short distance to the entryway Margo regained her composure and stepped away from me, a good sign because I didn’t want to play nursemaid to someone who could milk pain longer and stronger than most men, or so she’d bragged to me more than once. Besides, she smelled like the garbage I’d crawled through, which meant I probably did too.

  While we were staggering up the steps, she said, “Any chance your friend Lorenzo has returned from whatever mission took him away.”

  “None whatsoever or he would’ve called your cell … our cell.”

  “Now that you mention it, he hasn’t called at all,” she said.

  “Why should he? It’s not like we’re an item … or going together.”

  Thank god Margo stopped on the first landing, my cue to do the same. We stood there a minute, catching our breath before attacking the next flight. Onward and upward, Margo took the lead.

  “So, you don’t have his cell number,” she said from over her shoulder.

  “Stop it. We barely know each other.”

  “In the biblical sense,” she said.

  “Since when do you quote the bible.”

  “I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

  “Not to worry, as Mom would say. We can manage without a man in the house.”

  At last, no more stairs. I unlocked the door, followed Margo inside, and locked the door again. After switching on the light, I noticed the mouse forming under her left eye and touched it with the tip of my finger.

  “Ow-w,” she said, backing away. “Don’t make the damn thing any worse than it already is.”

  “We should telephone the police.”

  Margo handed me the phone. “Be my guest; I feel the urge to toss more cookies.”

  While she took the potty break I’d forgotten about, I searched for a telephone directory, opening several drawers before finding a little black book. Skimming page after page, I looked for the name Dante Novaro, and was ready to give up when his business card fell out. I called the number listed on it and was relieved to hear him answer on the first ring. After identifying myself and reminding him of my connection to Lorenzo Gentili, I gave a brief account of the attack.

  “I will be over right away,” Commissioner Dante said.

  “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I said as Margo was returning from the bathroom. She responded with a no-way shake of her head. “My sister and I are getting ready for bed.”

  “Were getting ready for bed,” he said. “Since you chose to call me, we are now on my time, and I prefer speaking to both of you while tonight’s incident remains vivid in your mind.”

  Who was I to argue with the carabinieri in a country other than my own. After the call ended, I dug the camera out of my handbag, and told Margo we’d need some photos for evidence.

  “Now?” she said. “When I want nothing more than a good night’s sleep?”

  “The commissioner should have a record of this assault, in case he doesn’t bring an official photographer.” I couldn’t stop my hand from trembling while I focused the camera on her.

  “It’s not like we’re in the boonies, El.” Margo turned her puffy eye to its best advantage.

  “Nor are we in America.” I snapped my first shot. “Every country has its own way of handling crimes of violence.”

  “Speaking of which: you saved my life.”

  “You saved yourself ….” Snap … snap. “I wasn’t even there.” I moved to Margo’s other side.

  “But, if you hadn’t showed up when you did, he might’ve come after me again. I was vulnerable and not thinking straight.”

  Snap … snap. “But you knew enough to defend yourself.”

  “You’re too modest, El. Are you done? Good. I won’t forget this, I promise.”

  “That’s one promise I will hold you to.”

  Margo dropped onto the couch and rested her head on its arm. “Douse the lights, will you. I can’t keep my eyes open one minute longer.”

  After turning out all lights except the one outside, I plopped onto Lorenzo’s roomy chair and lifted my feet to the matching ottoman. Sitting there gave me a weird sensation, his DNA rubbing off on mine, again. Soon, the light sound of Margo sawing logs lulled me into a similar sleep, only to have the pleasant journey of nothingness end with a knock-knock to my skull.

  “Did you hear what I heard?” Margo whispered.

  “Other than your insatiable snoring, no; you must’ve been dreaming.”

  “I don’t snore and you know it. Nor was I dreaming. Sh-h, there it is again, a noise coming from outside the door.”

  “It’s probably the commissioner,” I said, “and about time.” I went to the window and looked down to the street. “Still, I don’t see a police car, or for that matter, any other car.”

  The door rattled and Margo hopped up. She whispered her favorite profanity but in Italian, “Merda. Do you suppose it’s the landlord?”

  “Lorenzo at this hour and without calling, I don’t think so.” I spoke in a voice so low I barely heard it.

  “This thing that happened in the alley … maybe it’s not over.”

  “Or maybe we’re having a bad dream, you think?”

  “I don’t know but let’s find out.”

  Side by side, Margo and I tiptoed toward the entrance. On the way my hand slid across an umbrella protruding from its stand. I passed the umbrella on to Margo and for my weapon, chose a heavy vase from a nearby table. We stationed ourselves next to the door hinges, my hands clutching the vase, for all I knew a priceless heirloom that Lorenzo treasured. How much he treasured me, if at all, I had no idea. Margo held up one forefinger, signaling she would go first, just as she always did, whatever the occasion.

  The door swung open and a shadowy figure similar to that in the alley stepped across the threshold. Using the umbrella like a nine iron, Margo aimed for the ankles. She swung low and hard, bringing our intruder down with a single blow. A second blow to the body brought no sound from his mouth. Instead, he rolled to the side and was struggling to get up when Margo struck again. “Your turn, El, kill the dirty bastard if you can.”

  I lifted the vase overhead and was prepared to bring it crashing down when the intruder yelled, “Stop, Elena. The bastardo you are about to kill is me. I mean I … it is Lorenzo.”

  “Lorenzo?” I bent over, tried to inspect a face no more visible than Margo’s had been in the alley. “Oh my god, is that really you? Why didn’t you say something before now? We weren’t expecting you at this hour.”

  “Obviously, but it is not my habit to ask permesso before entering my own home.” He managed to stand with a certain agility
I had not expected, considering the collateral damage Margo and I had brought upon him.

  “This is my fault, and I do apologize,” Margo said. She extended her hand. “Hi, I’m the wicked witch from America, otherwise known as Ellen’s sister but you can call me Margo. Please don’t kick us out. I’ve already been assaulted once this evening and it’s too late to find a hotel, even if one were available.”

  “Already assaulted, I don’t understand, signorina.”

  I bristled from within but only for a moment. Lorenzo had called Margo a signorina too, lowering the bar another notch or two for what I considered a compliment exclusive to me. Not to mention there was the whole issue of the garbage stench exuding from both of us.

  Signorina Margo snapped two fingers as if they were attached to a castanet. “El, get the lights, please. I want to show Lorenzo why we were defending ourselves.” Margo had centered the spotlight on Margo, with Lorenzo hanging on to her every word. “The commissioner should’ve been here my now,” she said. “El, perhaps you should call again.”

  “I suggest waiting until morning,” Lorenzo said. “Dante may have encountered another emergency.”

  One could only hope, or not. I positioned the lamp to shine on a face that appeared more beautiful than ever, in spite of its temporary flaw. As for Lorenzo’s comment, I couldn’t let it pass. “Please tell me you don’t mean another murder.”

  “The commissario of Monterosso keeps busy with the same petty crimes plaguing most American villages,” he replied, “disorderly conduct, domestic quarrels, petty theft.”

  “My assault petty, really,” Margo said. Had she been a cat, I swear she would’ve arched her back and hissed. Instead she came back with, “Please. Don’t even think about going there. Not after I almost bought the farm.”

  “Bought the farm? Sorry, I do not understand, signorina.”

  “An American expression, as in dying … me with my throat slit from ear to ear.”

  “You saw the knife?” Lorenzo asked.

  “I didn’t have to see the knife to feel its blade against my throat, knowing any moment could be my last. Fortunately, I reacted before my assailant did.” She shifted her head in my direction. “Remember that self-defense class from years ago, the one you flunked?”

  “More like dropped, I had an unavoidable conflict.”

  “More like a crippling passive resistance to inflicting pain on a potential killer.”

  “You’re referring to our instructor, a guy too nice for role-playing.”

  “What, you wanted the real thing?” Margo asked with her sweet smile.

  “Acting never was my strong suit.”

  “If you please, ladies,” Lorenzo said.

  “Sorry about the sisterly love thing,” Margo said. “Sometimes we just can’t help ourselves. Anyway, while my attacker held me from behind, I jabbed my elbow in his ribs. When he stepped back, I turned and whacked my knee into his you-know-what. That really set him off because he sent me into outer space.”

  “It was only a matter of seconds,” I chimed in, “three or four at most.”

  “Long enough for him to get the upper hand again, long enough to feel as if a truck had crashed into me.” Margo shaded her eyes from the glaring light, which I would’ve done before then. “If you’re going to inspect the damage do it now, please. I’m so-o exhausted.”

  She dropped the hand shading her eyes, allowing Lorenzo to close in on her and wiggle his long, expressive fingers. “May I?”

  “Be my guest,” she said. “El, be a dear and move aside. You’re standing in Lorenzo’s light.”

  Gently, ever so gently, he touched her chin with the fingertips of one hand, those same fingertips that hours before had caressed every inch of me. He shifted her face to the right. “From my pedantic observation, the injury does not appear serious but tomorrow you may have more than one nasty bruise.”

  “I don’t suppose you have some raw beef,” Margo said.

  “Regretfully, no; however, I can fashion a cold pack that should reduce the swelling.”

  “You have ice?” she asked.

  “Enough for my needs, signorina, and for anyone I might invite to be my guest.”

  Keep it up, I thought, and by morning he’ll find other accommodations for Margo. One could only hope. As for morning, it was only a few hours away.

  Margo’s lip started to quiver. “My apologies, Lorenzo … and please, I insist you call me Margo.”

  “And I apologize for my unintentional rudeness, signorina. We are all tired.”

  Lorenzo opened his fridge’s tiny freezer and emptied its entire supply of ice cubes into a plastic bag, creating a pack no bigger than my fist. He wrapped the pack in a linen towel and would’ve delivered it to Margo had I not intervened.

  “Here,” I said, transferring the pack from his hand to hers. “Hold it below your eye until you feel the area going numb.”

  “Thanks, El,” Margo said with a wink. “And thank you, Lorenzo. Ellen told me what a gracious host you’ve been, and now I understand why. I will never forget your kindness. Nor will my sister.”

  “It has been my pleasure,” he said. “Elena is a marvelous guest.”

  “Elena?” She raised her brow to me. “How charming in the Italian way and much better than just plain Ellen. Right, El?”

  “If you say so,” I said. “Now what can we do to improve on the name Margo?

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” She held her fingers to her lips and spoke through a stifled yawn. “Please don’t think about calling the commissioner again.”

  “First thing in the morning,” I said. “As for tonight, I am going to bed.”

  “Wait for me.” Margo pushed herself up from the sofa, and said, “Buona notte, dearest Lorenzo.”

  “And a good night to both of you,” he replied.

  ***

  Margo fell asleep right away and regardless of the sleeping beauty she envisioned herself to be, gave way to a slack mouth emitting a series of most unbecoming intermittent sounds. I pictured them equal to those of a locomotive trying to pick up speed as it approached a piggy straddling railroad tracks, snorting for a few morsels thrown from the galley of an earlier train. For the time it took me to recall my promise to be nicer, I persevered, poking Margo only three or four times. After the fifth I gave up and returned to the living room, along with the soft down pillow I’d grown accustomed to after nights of uninterrupted rest, not counting my time with Lorenzo who’d brought a whole new meaning to the joy of being interrupted.

  Having made myself comfortable on the sofa, I did not find the sleep I had every right to expect. Instead my mind kept returning to Margo’s assault, the bent figure hurrying down the alley. There was no doubt as to the gender being male. Had he straightened up, he might’ve stood as tall as Lorenzo. Or not, I didn’t know for sure. The voice, what little I’d heard from a distance, was indiscernible, especially since it projected considerable pain, the acute type that usually passed after a short period. Time enough for a man who knew his way around to resume normal activities, without attracting undue attention.

  Whatever concerns I may have had ended when I heard Lorenzo whisper my name. He knelt beside the sofa, kissed my shoulder and from there moved to my ear.

  “I could not stop thinking about you,” he said. “Will you come to bed with me?”

  How could I refuse, especially after the many places he’d taken me the night before.

  Chapter 22

  Dante Novaro and Nicco Rizzi

  Morning came too soon but it didn’t stop me from feeling like a princess lying beside my Prince Charming. How romantic, Lorenzo almost looked handsome without the distracting eye glasses. Younger too or maybe it was me and how I viewed him in a sleeping mode. For a brief moment I considered taking the lead he’d encouraged me to try during our adventurous night. But after a quick glance at the clock I hopped out of bed, picked up my clothes and hurried to the room I was supposed to be sharing with Margo
. She was already dressed and leaning into the dresser mirror, inspecting bruises so miniscule they required a magnifying glass.

  “Well, it’s about time,” she said, “although he wouldn’t have been my choice.”

  “This isn’t about you,” I snapped back, having already disregarded my promise about being nicer. A promise easily broken with her watching my reflection in the mirror as I gathered the clothes I planned on wearing that day.

  “He seems kind of anal retentive … but then so are—”

  “Not another word from you,” I said on my way to the bathroom.

  ***

  Commissario Dante Novaro arrived promptly at nine along with a thirty-something assistant he introduced as Nicco Rizzi. As with the commissioner, Nicco Rizzi wore business attire in the Italian style but his tapered suit had a better fit than that of his superior. When it comes to clothes or lack thereof, forty extra pounds does make a world of difference. As did the naked ring finger on Nicco’s hand that Margo kept eyeing, along with his dark, wavy hair and museum-quality profile. He was taller than most Italians, but not as tall as Lorenzo, and carried a phone more sophisticated than the model Margo had already taken charge of, again. No surprises there. Nicco started taking notes on his phone as soon as she opened her mouth.

  Lorenzo, who had reverted from Prince Charming to charming host, produced a polished wood tray containing five espressos, so strong they almost walked on their own. Although I nearly choked on mine, Margo raved about the excellent quality of the brew, a special blend according to Lorenzo. With hospitality out of the way, the commissioner got around to the purpose of his visit. It didn’t take much urging on his part for Margo to repeat her account of the assault, a dramatization so believable I found myself confirming each detail with an enthusiastic nod, which caught the attention of Nicco. After that he addressed me in English far better than my fractured Italian.

  “Is there anything you wish to add, Signorina Savino?” Nicco asked.

  “Only that my sister and I will do whatever we can to help locate the killer.”

  “Assailant,” Commissioner Novaro corrected me. “Until and unless we know otherwise, this was an unfortunate incident, one that should never have occurred here in Monterosso.”