Italy to Die For

by Loretta Giacoletto

  “An ugly Americano if ever there was,” I said. “Also incredibly stupid, what with Trevor thinking he had a chance with me—ugh. How gross is that. Are you sure he had nothing to do with the murders of those two gypsies?”

  “We are checking out his alibis, the places he claims to have been, and with whom. He will occupy a cell here in our facility until we are confident of his innocence.”

  “I suppose the firing squad would be a bit too extreme.”

  “Unlike America, here in Italy we do not have capital punishment. Again, should you decide not to press charges, he may have his freedom within days.”

  “What about the keys to Lorenzo’s apartment,” El said. “None of this would’ve happened had I not lost them.”

  “They must’ve fallen out of your purse at the ristorante,” Lorenzo said. “The waiter returned them to my zio, Bernardo Cozzani.”

  “Too bad your uncle didn’t return them to me.” El said.

  If looks could kill, Lorenzo would’ve been toast. Never have I seen such anger plastered over El’s face. She almost knocked over the chair when she stood up. “Thank you, Commissioner. Unless you need anything else, do my sister and I have your permission to leave?”

  “For now this is not a problem,” he said. “However, within the next few days we will need the cooperation of both of you to provide the proper depositions.”

  “That seems reasonable, provided a few days don’t evolve into a full week. After the depositions we plan to leave Cinque Terre and it’s doubtful we will ever return.”

  All of a sudden this light bulb went off in my head. At the same time Lorenzo’s perfectly brewed coffee from two hours ago started rumbling in my stomach. I leveled my finger to the commissioner, and said, “Hold on. Aren’t we forgetting the most important ingredient in this super colossal mess? If you know that idiot Trevor did not attack me in the alley, then who did? And why have you not apprehended that idiot yet.”

  “At no time have we stopped working on our investigation, signorina. Still, I regret to say as yet we do not have any suspects, prime or otherwise.”

  Enough, I’d had enough and threw up my hands. “That’s it. We are so out of here and I do mean Cinque Terre. Right, El?”

  “Later, Margo, this is not the time or the place.”

  Chapter 28

  Pick a Place, Any Place

  Let me repeat: inside or outside this police station was not the time or the place for emotional outbreaks or rash decisions, all that heart-thumping and gut-wrenching that separated the irrational Margo from the more rational me. Our differences also explained why she could fall in and out of love faster than bunnies hoping from one to the other. I, on the other hand, had waited far too long for my first hop, my first chance at love. A pity it happened to be with a man who couldn’t give me what I wanted more than anything else—respect, marriage, and perhaps a family though I could’ve been just as happy without kids. Was that asking too much?

  Although Lorenzo followed Margo and me into the street, I neither looked at him nor did I want any part of him or his lame excuses. What a fool I’d been, giving myself to the first man who showed a sliver of interest in me, all because I wanted to know love first hand and not through the eyes of a third person. A third person—Margo would’ve loved that. Or hated it, at least she had stuck by me when Lorenzo came clean about his wife. And I had stuck by Margo when Giorgio found a reason to dump her. But that’s what sisters are supposed to do. Lovers, however new or however temporary, were supposed to be loyal and attentive until the time came to move on.

  Still, I waited for Lorenzo to make some kind of move and when he placed his hand on my shoulder, I was relieved he’d given me a reason to stop walking.

  “Please let me explain, Elena. None of this is as it appears to be.”

  “Oh, really, then please explain to me what is real as opposed to what only appears to be.”

  “We should go somewhere,” he said. “Perhaps have a cappuccino.”

  “Not before you explain the keys I supposedly lost at the ristorante.”

  “You did not lose the keys. One of Fonso’s men saw Trevor Connors take them from your purse while he was giving you an affectionate hug.”

  “You mean the tourist from Ireland?”

  “More like the man who speaks in the accents of countries from his youth. After Trevor took your keys, Fonso’s man took them from Trevor.”

  “At which point he could’ve returned them to me.”

  “The objective was to draw out the killer.”

  “Using El and me as bait,” Margo said. “Thanks for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing, you did agree to cooperate with the Roma. For that you have earned their respect, which is no small accomplishment. As for Trevor, he seemed like a good possibility but not every possibility becomes a reality.”

  “I take it the commissioner didn’t know about the Roma and their involvement.”

  “Granted, Dante is my friend but I do not share everything with him. Nor, does he with me. Now, shall we continue our walk or continue our talk?”

  “I for one, vote to walk,” Margo said. She draped her arm over my shoulder, gave it a squeeze for good measure. “Either way, you know I’m with you, El.”

  “In that case,” I said, “andiamo.”

  After walking a while longer, we approached the tourist area at which point Margo slowed down and tugged on my sleeve.

  “If it’s not a problem for you, I’d like to do some exploring on my own,” she said. “Do not, I repeat do not, get excited if you don’t see me for a few hours, more like the rest of the day. I might hop a boat or take a train, anything for a change of scenery. Make that a fresh outlook, okay?”

  The image of the Roma Tania with her throat slit flashed before my eyes, which didn’t seem fair to Margo because I wouldn’t want her worrying about me if the situation were reversed. Still, I managed to show my concern when I said, “By yourself?”

  “Maybe I’ll catch up with Jonathan, now that he has no one to bum around with. Or Franz or Max, come on El, give me a break and also the apartment keys. I don’t like being sidelined.”

  “Just make sure you don’t stay out after dark unless you’re with people you know and trust.” Yes, I was starting to sound like our mother. Worse yet, act like her when I dangled the keys in Margo’s face until she grabbed them from my hand.

  “Yes, mommy dearest, I promise. And don’t you be calling me all day.”

  No need to worry about that, sister dearest. I had my own agenda. At the next corner we parted company when Margo turned right and headed toward the shops. Lorenzo raised his brow and offered me one arm, which I hesitated to take but did anyway although my leg no longer hurt, even after the cheerleader spill. Not that I needed an excuse, not after all we’d done together in the course of several days but would not be doing any time in the future.

  “If you’re still interested in a cappuccino, there are several good options around here,” Lorenzo said. “Or we could return to my apartment.”

  All the way back to his apartment for cappuccino, or whatever else he had in mind, I didn’t think so. Not after certain principles I held dear had already been compromised. “That won’t be necessary. Just pick a place, any place.”

  Two blocks later found us in a trattoria new to me, one I hadn’t passed by before, perhaps because it was located down a side street, away from the throngs of tourists Margo had since joined. As with every place I went with Lorenzo, he greeted this proprietor as an old friend and introduced him to me as Flavio. After a quick visit to the restroom, I returned to find the two of them discussing business and local politics, a conversation they continued until our cappuccino arrived. The perfect cup, its foamy topping swirled into a heart-shaped design. After Flavio excused himself, I wasted no time throwing out my first question to Lorenzo.

  “Is there anyone living in Monterosso you don’t know?”

  He sat back in a manner more relaxed than any
I’d seen that morning. “Off hand, none that I can think of,” he said. “The apartment building here has been in my family for generations, as has the villa in La Spezia.”

  “Which place did you spend more time as a boy?”

  He thought before answering. “I think Monterosso rather than La Spezia. Even now I prefer being nearer to the sea, the smell of it, the salty breeze, the excitement of tourists and the local industry.”

  “What about the lemons and anchovies?” I asked. A question Mom would’ve called fishing.

  “Yes, of course, and the sunsets.”

  “To die for … not literally, you know what I mean.”

  He covered my hand with his. “How well I know, especially these past few days with you, never will I forget those sunsets that now have a new meaning for me. I do have one regret, however.”

  At last we were getting somewhere. “And that would be?”

  “Those earrings you admired. I should’ve bought them for you that very day. Later, when I telephoned to have them set aside, they’d already been sold.”

  “Tell me about it. I was with Margo when she bought them for herself.”

  “Now I am sorrier than before. But I will make it up to you. This I promise.”

  “Don’t make promises you cannot keep.” I pulled my hand away and took a risk with my next question. “About your wife, where did you meet her?”

  A pause followed, awkward beyond words until he said, “There are some things one does not ask of another.”

  “Not this time, Lorenzo. That may have worked with your business interests. It may have worked before you made love to me. It may have worked before the gypsy fiasco. It may have worked when I thought your wife was dead. But it won’t work now that I know she’s still alive.”

  For the second time that morning he banged the side of his fist on a table, and while cups rattled in their saucers, he shoved his face into mine, and spoke in a hushed tone. “I do not wish to discuss Anita.”

  It was a side of Lorenzo I hadn’t seen before that day. Understandable considering the short time I’d known him. So what if he’d all but curled his lip and bared his teeth, at this point I had nothing to lose. “Shall I make inquiries around Monterosso? Surely someone remembers your wife.”

  The rim of Lorenzo’s ears flushed. Before he could answer my question, Flavio showed up at our table and asked if we wanted more cappuccini.

  “Si, grazie,” I held up two fingers. “Due.”

  Flavio turned to leave. Not so fast—I called him back, and asked, “Do you remember Anita Gentili.”

  “Flavio does not speak English,” Lorenzo said.

  I repeated a phrase I’d been practicing in my head. “Ti ricordi Anita Gentili?”

  Flavio smiled before a sad expression clouded his face. “Bella, bella, mori troppo pesto.”

  She died too young, that much I got but not the rest because Flavio was talking too fast, or so it seemed to me. After he backed away and returned to the kitchen, I threatened to get up and leave unless Lorenzo gave me a detailed rundown of Flavio’s comments.

  Lorenzo sighed, long and hard before answering my question. “Flavio said everyone remembers her … that she was beautiful, inside and out … that everyone loved her but not as much as I did. She was my passion.”

  “Flavio said she was your passion?”

  “No, those were my words.”

  “Not once have I heard anyone ask how she’s doing now. At least that’s my impression from the little Italian I know.”

  “To the people of Cinque Terre and those in La Spezia, Anita died years ago. This is my way of protecting her and a topic I do not wish to discuss any further.”

  Flavio brought the cappuccini, every bit as perfect as our first order. I spooned off some of the foam and held it in my mouth until nothing remained but the sweet aftertaste.

  “And yet you associate with her people,” I said, “Fonso and the other Roma.”

  “To keep Anita’s condition from them would be impossible. They know what I’m thinking before I do.”

  “What do they think about me?”

  He lifted his head to the ceiling, as if to find answers in the ancient rafters.

  I tapped my fingers, and said, “I’m waiting.”

  “The Roma find you amusing: an obstinate woman at odds with the beauty of her body, one who has yet to be fully awakened although they encourage me to keep trying.”

  “Obstinate … good grief … I … uh, who said that?”

  “No one but me,” he said with a smile, “and to no one but you.”

  It was my turn to blush. Or laugh … I may have done a little of both.

  “As for what they think I think about you does not matter. I only know what I think and that is I want to take you into my arms, take you into my bed. I want to practice making love to you, over and over again until I get it right and neither of us has anything left to learn. All of which will take a very long time.” He stood up and held out his hand to me. “Now will you go back to the apartment with me?”

  Chapter 29

  From Lemons to Lemonade

  Okay, I’m half-way ashamed to admit this but yes, I, Margo Savino, was preparing to go on the prowl, not exactly desperate for a man in my life, however temporary but to the point of warding off any possibility of appearing desperate, a fine distinction in my opinion, the only one that mattered. I considered contacting Bernardo Cozzani, and had I bumped into him on the street, no doubt we could’ve spent an enjoyable day together, one every bit as delightful as our impromptu coupling the evening before. Impromptu for me, that is, although I suspect Bernardo either received a pharmaceutical boost or he’d been blessed with an amazing level of testosterone. Perform he did, make that we, nestled in a postage-size courtyard behind the ristorante. Never in a million years did I imagine myself connecting with a man old enough to be my grandfather; and if we never meet again until the next life, I will still remember him with a smile on my face and fond respect in my heart.

  However, this day was a new day, as with every day a new beginning. And in Italy men still took the lead, unless their mamas took it instead. Don’t get me started, one mama’s boy had been one too many for me. The church bells started to ring, a reminder to check my watch. Eleven o’clock and no desire to shop … look out world, make way for Margo Savino. I strolled over to the boardwalk, its beach beyond crowded with a canopy of blue umbrellas and sun worshippers. An empty bench at the boardwalk’s edge called to me. Sitting there, I let the sun do its thing while the sea did its thing, with white waves lifting high and rolling into water reflecting the blue sky. A motorboat filled with passengers disappeared from my view while rounding the bend to where it would soon dock. Minutes later, the latest group of tourists passed by to my right as they prepared to join those already in Monterosso.

  “Is this seat saved?” I heard someone ask.

  A voice that flat could only belong to another American from the Midwest. Yes, my space had been invaded by Jonathan who was even too corny for Iowa but no worse than Franz and Max who might’ve moved on. I’d not seen either of them since the first day I’d set foot on Monterosso. Only a few days ago but it seemed much longer. I patted the bench and told Jonathan to sit. Evidently he’d already heard about Trevor, one version, that is, because he brought up the subject, not me.

  “Quite the bummer,” he said. “I didn’t think Trevor had it in him.”

  “He didn’t. Turns out he was a prankster and not a killer.” I went on to explain our visit to the police station and Trevor’s incredible stupidity.

  “Really? Well, that’s a relief, big time.”

  “Yes, for all concerned. If he gets off with a slap on the wrist, he probably won’t be welcomed in Italy again.”

  “Hey, if that’s the worst thing that happens to him, he’s getting off lucky.” Jonathan leaned forward, one elbow on his knee. “So what do you think? Shall we make it a twosome, as in plenty of fun and no strings attached?” />
  “Hmm … let me think on this.”

  “What more is there to think about—you, me, and the Ligurian Sea.”

  “Well, for starters: what did you have in mind?”

  “Something I’ve wanted to do since I got here but it might take more than one day.”

  “Sounds like you already have a plan.”

  “That I do.” He pulled a brochure from the pocket of his polo shirt and opened it. “Look, it’s all here. We hop a train to Rapallo, about an hour north of here. From Rapallo we hop a boat to San Margherita for a quick walk-around and from there we hop another boat to Portofino.”

  “Portofino, where the rich and famous hang out?”

  “That I can’t promise but one thing is for sure: when we get to Portofino, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met will be there.”

  “Really, and who would that be?”

  “I’m looking at her as we speak.”

  Corny, you bet, but in a sweet way. I couldn’t help but laugh, not at him but with him. “Okay, Jonathan from Iowa, you’ve convinced me.”

  “I have?” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Thanks, you have made my day and tomorrow and the next day, however long it takes to show you a good time. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

  “A couple of days you say. I’ll have to let the police commissioner know.”

  His face fell. “Why the commissioner, I don’t understand.”

  “Just a formality, since I am the numero uno victim, actually the only survivor … at least that I know of. Oh, never mind the whole thing is too complicated.”

  “Not for me,” he said. “If you want, we can talk about it on the train.”

  “Not if we have something better to discuss. But if you’re serious about this—”

  “You bet I am.”

  He kissed me again, a sweet junior-high kiss followed by one that almost curled my toes. Displays of affection such as this were an everyday occurrence throughout Italy, which made me glad I was still here and had found someone who thought I was terrific without even knowing the real me.