I imagined El making a last ditch effort to first save herself and depending on the outcome, me next. To my horror El’s grip on my ankles went limp. I wobbled from front to back and side to side before taking a bumpy slide down her back. Dear god, I half expected to land in a pool of blood and couldn’t bear the thought of having to deal with what was left of her. My first contact with ground became a step backwards. I lost my footing and landed with a bounce on my rear end. So much for my return to cheerleading, the simple dismount of a standard shoulder stand I used to perform like a pro.
But enough about me, my poor sister was sprawled on her back, a most unbecoming position unless she was an actress about to be ravished in a sci-fi movie. I didn’t look any better, crawling over to her on all fours. “El, speak to me. Are you all right?”
“I … I think so. Sorry I couldn’t answer you but … but … he had a knife.” She let out a groan, which didn’t seem necessary, before maneuvering into a sitting position, awkward with her legs spread apart and head bobbling.
“Are you all right, Signorina Margo?”
I looked up to see Fonso holding out his hand to me. I took it and he pulled me up before doing the same for El. Matt and Mark or some variation of them came forward, arms folded and not one slicked-back hair out of place on either head.
“Has anybody seen my Jimmy Choos?”
“What Jimmy. There’s no Jimmy,” said one of the guys—Matt for lack of a better name.
“Scusi, I meant my shoes.”
Matt already had the shoes in his hands. “These?” he asked.
“Si, my Jimmy Choos, grazie.”
Mark, the other gypsy, grabbed the flatties out of Matt’s hands. He knelt at my feet and helped me slide into them. Please, as if I needed help. Or, Mark coping a feel of my right ankle. I put an end to that with a kick of my left foot and seconds later Mark bounced to his feet.
“What about the man with the knife?” El asked in a voice so raspy it didn’t sound like her.
“Over there,” Fonso said with a gesture of his head.
“Lorenzo!” El half yelled, half whispered.
“Lorenzo?” I all but shouted. Surely not El’s Lorenzo, the one man I thought might’ve been worthy of her, Lorenzo who must’ve found her attractive in a way no other man had … other than that Jonathan guy from Iowa, of all places. I followed El twenty feet or so into the dark, figuring we were now safe with Fonso and the gang. What a relief to find Lorenzo, not the perpetrator but part of the rescue team. There he stood with Fonso, both of them lording over a man lying spread eagle and face down across the cobblestones.
“Your assailant,” Lorenzo said to El and me. He left Fonso with arms folded and one foot on the man’s back, and walked toward us. Okay toward El, by now having wrapped his arms around her in a way that reminded me of Giorgio doing his mummy routine. Hardly the time for a romantic encounter, although coming from Lorenzo a bit stiff for my taste. I continued on to where the creep on the ground had turned his head away from me. Not to be deterred, I bent over for a better look.
“What the … El, get over here right now,” I yelled. “You won’t believe this.”
El detached herself from Lorenzo and came running. When she leaned over for her own look-see, a gasp erupted from her mouth. But did I rub salt into her wounded pride? No. Instead, I took one step back and let her do the talking; after all, he was her friend, not mine.
“Trevor, is that you,” she said. “How could you do such a horrible thing?”
“Bastard,” I added, along with a well-deserved kick to his ribs. “Where’s Jonathan? Is he in this with you?”
Trevor closed his eyes without saying a word so there didn’t seem much point in hovering any longer. El went back to her precious Lorenzo, leaving me with no one except Fonso, who was not about to remove his foot from Trevor’s back.
“Grazie, Fonso,” I said. “For whatever you did to help.”
“Better you should thank my Roma brothers.” He gestured to his apostle sidekicks and I wandered over to where they were propping up a building that must’ve been there before the Gutenberg press printed its first book.
The gypsy I’d re-named Luke held up the bottle of wine they’d been passing around, and addressed me with a question mark that set my mouth to water. “Signorina?”
“Si, grazie.” I took the bottle by its neck, wondering if wiping the rim would offend my rescuers. To hell with the germs, those gypsies who still made me squeamish; I held the opening to my lips and drank more than I probably should have. There wasn’t much left when I returned it to my Luke guy, prompting a grin from him that bordered on lecherous … okay, more like seductive.
“Did we not keep our promise,” he said.
“You did, as did my sister and I kept ours.”
“We should celebrate,” he said.
Our little tete-a-tete came to an abrupt end with the wailing of sirens, followed by one police car, then another. Commissioner Novaro and his assistant Nicco Rizzi stepped out of the lead car. I left the gypsies who were uncorking another bottle and walked over to where our not-so-friendly perpetrator was still grounded.
“Well, it’s about time,” I couldn’t resist saying to no one in particular. Not that I’d expected a response, nor did I get one, other than a poke from El who always worried about me embarrassing her when she should’ve been freeing herself from a host of inhibitions. By this time Nicco had cuffed Trevor’s hands from behind and was yanking him to his feet while a policeman I recognized from the station was bagging the knife he found under Trevor. Having returned El’s poke with my own, I said, “What about your friend Jonathan.”
“Have you been drinking?” she whispered. “Your breath smells like sour grapes.”
“Give me a break. It’s not like I committed a crime worse than the one perpetrated on us. Which brings me back to Jonathan, you still didn’t answer my question.”
“I doubt that Jonathan is involved in any of this,” Lorenzo said. “My Roma friends tell me he returned to his hotel shortly after you entered the taxi.”
“Your gypsy friends?” I asked. It was the one question that still begged an answer.
“Then you do know them,” El said in a voice as edgy as mine would’ve been had Lorenzo been hugging me earlier instead of her.
“For many years,” Lorenzo replied. “But my relationship with the Roma is nothing I wish to discuss here and now.”
Chapter 26
It’s All Relative
Thank god for small favors. The big ones too, since Margo and I had survived the worst ordeal of our lives and had come away from it with no physical wounds. Forget about pride; under circumstances such as these, pride took a back seat. Our usual banter had dwindled to a few words and Margo, who never pooped out first, was starting to lean on me, leaving me no one to lean on but her. Together we were as useless as two shades of eye shadow in a convent filled with cloistered nuns. Commissioner Novaro took mercy on us, or maybe he was as tired as we were since he suggested waiting until morning before another trip to the police station. A lot of questions remained unanswered in my mind but all I could think about was a warm bath followed by a lush bed and a sleep so deep I wouldn’t have to think about tomorrow. Neither of these creature comforts included Lorenzo who must’ve needed his own space because he made himself as scarce as I’d made myself.
The next morning I awoke to an oxymoron of Margo’s annoying snores erupting every fifteen seconds and the inviting fragrance of strong coffee coming from the kitchen, both of which had penetrated every orifice in my head. I could not have asked for a better scenario: the opportunity to have Lorenzo to myself, a heart-to-heart without Margo’s sarcastic remarks distracting him and embarrassing me.
I slipped into reliable knitwear, made up my face, and strolled into the dining area. Lorenzo was leaning against the counter, his overall appearance above reproach, as was his cheerful buongiorno which was not the case when I returned the greeting. His attempt to
kiss me turned into an awkward moment when I moved away from him and sat down at the table. It had already been laid out with a spread of the usual—assorted jams, Melba toast, yesterday’s bread which I didn’t mind, and chocolate hazelnut Nutella the Italians swore by, none of which appealed to me that morning.
He poured two espressos, sat across from me, and captured my attention with his penetrating eyes. “You slept well?”
“Actually, no,” I said. “Not after last night’s fiasco, not with my shoulders aching after doing a balancing act with Margo, not after feeling a razor-sharp blade pressed into my throat, of knowing the next breath I took could be my last. Not after being in the middle of a gypsy fire drill, of losing my footing and having Margo claw her way down my back, both of us piled on the ground like two sorry clowns.”
Memo to self:
Never again believe Margo’s claim about wearing a size 4.
“Elena, please accept my deepest apologies.”
“I don’t know that I can. For sure not today,” I told him, “maybe not tomorrow, then again, maybe never.”
“Forever is a long time to carry a grudge.”
“Much longer than to bleed out, which is how Trevor had described the afterwards I almost experienced last night. You set us up—Margo and me. Don’t lie; I know you did. We nearly got ourselves killed so that you and your gypsy friends could play the heroes.”
“It was never my intent that harm should come to either of you. By the time I arrived on the scene this Trevor from America already had one arm wrapped around you; and yes, from what I could see, possibly a knife pressed to your throat.”
“Oh, it was a knife, that’s for sure. Meanwhile, Fonso and his gang stood by. What were they waiting for, the first spurt of blood to come gushing from my neck. The very sight of which might’ve spurred Trevor on, as in one slice leads to another and another. By then Margo would’ve crashed and he could’ve started on her. We’d have made the newspaper headlines all right, along with our bloody photos passed around the police station to entertain the troops.”
“But none of that happened, nor would my … Fonso and his men have allowed it to happen.”
“And that’s another thing: just what is this mysterious connection between you and them, the gypsies you first insisted would not have ventured into Monterosso, the gypsies you later tried to convince me I hadn’t seen when I knew damn well I had. The murder of a second woman put an end to your little charade. The commissioner’s too. Gypsies, if I never see another one—”
“My wife came from a long line of Roma,” Lorenzo said. “Fonso and I … he is my brother-in-law.”
“Is?” I nearly choked on the espresso that turned cold and bitter when it hit my mouth. “Or was; make up your mind … and don’t you dare lie to me.”
He sighed, hesitated before speaking words it pained me to hear. “The woman you saw in the garden of my villa was no aberration, nor a ghost or a prankster. She is … was my wife.”
“She either is or was; what’s it going to be, Lorenzo.”
“Anita is not the woman she once was, nor the woman I married. Ten years ago she separated herself from this world and now lives in another, one so remote she allows no one else to enter. I think of myself as a widower because my wife is lost to me forever.”
“Hmm, now she’s lost. Considering you denied she was still alive, how convenient.”
“But not without merit. Anita lives in the house of my neighbor Frederico and his sister, a zitella—I mean a spinster.”
“Like me.”
“Nothing like you, Elena, you are too beautiful—”
“I said don’t lie to me.”
“Please let me finish. As I was saying you are too beautiful and in Italy too young to be considered a spinster. Frederico and his sister care for Anita in ways Zia no longer has the strength or the patience to do. Nor do I, it shames me to say.” He banged his turned first on the table. “God knows I tried … oh how I tried but it was Anita who wound up hating me more than I loved her. Giving her up was a decision I did not make lightly but in the end that decision has worked well for all concerned.”
With each word Lorenzo spoke, the romance I’d imagined us sharing moved from what might have been to what would never be, primarily because of his wife but also the lies and deceit that now defined him.
“Ahem,” came an ill-timed clearing of the throat, neither mine nor Lorenzo’s. I glanced up to see Margo standing there, for how long I didn’t know, although she was still wearing what passed as her version of modest pajamas.
“May I have coffee Americano, please,” she said, “but only if you have some already brewed.”
Lorenzo, the gracious host and two-timing yet gracious lover, got up, poured Margo’s coffee, and set it on the table. After they both sat down, he passed the bowl of sugar cubes, and asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Nothing I can think of,” she said while adding two cubes to the Americano. Her spoon clanked from one side to the other, Margo’s way of expressing the nervous side of her she seldom exposed. “I suppose the commissioner wants to see us as soon as possible.”
“There is no great urgency although as soon as Dante is satisfied with your report, you will be free to continue your enjoyment of Cinque Terre.”
Margo gave me a look our mother would’ve given, sympathetic without the proverbial I-told-you-so. “El, I’m good with whatever you decide.”
“First, let’s get the police business out of the way,” I told her. “After that … well, god only knows because I don’t have the foggiest.”
Chapter 27
One Ugly Americano
One thing I knew for sure: El was not in the best of moods. Nor did I blame her. In fact, never had I seen her so bummed out, not even when she’d turned in her novice veil. As for Lorenzo, I’d heard most of what he’d told her: his relationship to Fonso and the gypsy community; but more importantly, the wife El didn’t know about, the wife who’d entered the Twilight Zone. Shades of Jane Eyre, I couldn’t help thinking, not that I was promoting death by fire. This woman floating around in the garden, a slew of cats lapping up milk; Lorenzo in denial … erase that, Lorenzo living a lie of convenience. My poor sis, misled, both of us nearly murdered. Oh, yeah. We’d done our bit in the name of Italia, for the good of Monterosso al Mare and the tourist industry as a whole.
El and I were ready to leave for the police station when she told Lorenzo it wouldn’t be necessary for him to go with us.
“Ah, but I must,” he said. “Dante is expecting me.”
Really, I had my doubts but like it or not, I still felt like the third wheel of a bicycle built for two. That said, the three of us walked to the station in silence, except for a comment about the weather and Lorenzo making hurried small talk with a few shopkeepers along the way. As soon as we arrived at the station, Nicco Rizzi popped into the reception area to greet us. After the usual exchange of buongiornos minus the hugs and kisses I would’ve relished, we followed Nicco down the hall to where Commissioner Novaro was waiting for us. Call it the height of déjà vu—same room, same people, same story … well, almost but not quite.
Coffee was offered. We all refused. I just wanted this over, and wasted no time in getting to the point with my first question. “Has that idiot Trevor confessed?”
“Only to being an idiot,” the commissioner replied. “And that he most certainly is. It seems Trevor Connors followed your taxi, not in another one but as a race through the streets by foot.”
“Just as the Roma predicted he would,” Lorenzo said.
“You mean the gypsies,” I just had to say. “What a super colossal farce.”
El chimed in with, “How could you, Lorenzo.”
Signorini, please,” Nicco said. “Let the commissario continue.”
Dante Novaro cleared his throat before he spoke. “Grazie, Nicco. As I was saying, Trevor Connors did indeed arrive at Lorenzo’s apartment around the same time as when t
he taxi delivered the two of you. It seems he wanted to make an impression with his resourcefulness. Since Lorenzo was not expected to return that evening, Connors hoped you would invite him in for a drink, perhaps more.”
“Then what: slit our throats.”
“I think not since the weapon we found beneath him was nothing more than a butter knife.”
“A dull one at that,” Nicco said.
“Unlike the one used on those two victims who bled out,” I said.
“That is correct, and please do not ask me to provide more information about the actual weapon.”
El started rubbing her neck around the same time I did.
Nicco, who had the decency not to smirk, went on to say, “It seems your friend—”
“More like an acquaintance,” El said. “We only met him the day before.”
I jumped in with, “A few drinks and mindless conversation, nothing more. Last evening after dinner he and Jonathan from Iowa stopped by our table and chatted for a while. They helped us into the taxi … well, you know the rest.”
“In any case, he picked up the butter knife at the ristorante, a cheap souvenir, if you will and not all that uncommon for tourists visiting the Cinque Terre. When Trevor Connors witnessed your attempts to retrieve the keys to Lorenzo’s building, he made the foolish mistake of pretending to hold you hostage, hoping you would be both amused and relieved to learn it was nothing more than a prank.”
“Not funny,” I said. “He deserves to rot in jail.”
“That will be for the court to decide, if the case gets that far. Already the man has secured a prominent lawyer, on my recommendation. Assault and battery, not necessarily a serious crime, when one considers the bizarre circumstances. Should you agree not to press charges, who knows, he may be asked, more like ordered, to leave the country.”
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