by Joanne Pence
“We are Stefano,” the younger man touched his heart, then gestured toward the elder, “and Umberto Falcone.”
At her inquiry as to whether they were tourists or worked in the area, Stefano explained that they were archeologists, father and son. As she oohed and aahed with interest, he preened like a peacock. Umberto cast daggers at both of them as he shoveled down his dinner. Stefano ignored the looks, explaining that they worked for the Vatican and were involved in excavations at the Forum, right near the Mamertine Prison.
“Oh, that is sooo interesting!” Angie gushed. “What fascinating work it must be.”
“Well . . . it’s a job,” he said with obviously false modesty.
“No, you have to know a whole lot to do that kind of work!” She held her hands up and clenched together like she’d seen teenage fans of boy pop singers do. She hoped she looked sufficiently awe-stricken. “Is there still much left to find? I would have thought it had been all dug up by now.”
“We go very deep,” Stefano boasted. “We’re finding things from the time of Christ.”
“How incredible.” Angie batted her lashes. “Tell me, do you ever find religious relics?”
Just then two policemen walked into the restaurant. They stood near the doorway and perused the diners.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled. Head down, she pretended she was inspecting the floor for stray crumbs and scurried into the kitchen. She had no idea if the cops were there to eat or for more work-related reasons—like arresting her and Cat—but she wasn’t about to hang around to find out. Paavo had warned her that Lieutenant Eastwood wanted to send the police after them. While Paavo didn’t believe Eastwood could pull it off, if he did, he’d know that a good place to try to look for them would be Marcello’s restaurant.
Hiding behind the door, she watched them.
“Go take care of the customers!” Bruno ordered.
“I feel sick,” she said. “You go.”
Mouth wrinkled, he eyed the police a moment before deciding, “The customers are fine.”
Fortunately for those customers, the cops were there less than five minutes.
Not long after that, the dinner crowd began to dwindle, and the archeologists had gone without ever answering her question. Angie sank into a chair, exhausted from peeling tomatoes, busing dishes for Cosimo, and waiting on tables with Bruno.
When she caught her breath enough to look around, she was surprised that Cat hadn’t appeared. She must have still been working with the pasta machine. Angie knew it could be difficult, but she’d thought Cat would have mastered the thing by now.
She stepped into the back nook to see what was going on.
Cat sat on a stool, legs crossed, a goblet of red wine at her side. Short bits of fettuccine that had failed were sprinkled on the table and the floor.
Cosimo was literally jumping from one end of the pasta machine to the other as fettuccine oozed out. He was covered head to toe with flour, sweating profusely, and his toupee had slipped to one side. Little tufts of powder billowed up from the floor whenever he stepped on a good-sized spill.
On the table, sheets of pasta looked as dry as ancient parchment, and several balls of dough were all but mummified.
Only a few minuscule mounds of perfectly shaped fettuccine lay on a towel.
“Cat! What’s going on?”
She took a sip of her wine and heaved a sigh before answering. “Cosimo isn’t very good at this, I’m afraid.”
Chapter 19
“No one knows exactly when Peter first came to Rome, but it was probably around 42 A.D.,” Maria Amalfi Klee said to the homicide inspectors who had gathered close to listen to her story. “When Paul wrote his letter to the Romans in 57 A.D., he was addressing a large community. It can only have grown that way because Peter was there teaching.” Her eyes were large and shining as she relayed this information. She faced Paavo. “Don’t you agree?”
“Sure.” He wasn’t about to argue. He should have known he couldn’t spend the entire afternoon without another Amalfi trying to help him do his job. Maria was Angie’s third sister—the one so religious she once wanted to become a nun.
The other detectives curiously studied Maria as she sat at his desk and addressed them all. She may have been the most purely beautiful of all the sisters. Her jet black hair reached her waist. She often wore it in a single braid, but today it hung loose and straight. Her eyes were almost black, her skin a flawless olive shade, and she used no makeup except for lipstick and a little blush. While Angie’s sister Frannie looked anorexic, Angie and Cat worked to keep their weight down, and Bianca had surrendered the battle altogether, to a man’s eye Maria’s build was perfect. Lush and curvaceous, she played up her exotic looks in her clothes and jewelry, which usually had an East Indian motif. She favored beaded tunics, lots of bangles, and intricate, ethnic-looking necklaces.
The only problem was that she usually wore an expression she probably considered a combination of piety and otherworldliness, but reminded Paavo of someone sucking on a sour ball. She wore it now as she responded to Paavo’s questions about the chain with a discourse on the life of St. Peter.
“The basilica called St. Peter in Chains stands at the summit of one of the Esquiline Hill’s three peaks,” she continued. “The palace of justice, the Praefecura Urbis, was on that spot, and nearby stood the Templum Telluris where Christians were imprisoned and sentenced to death.” She made a quick sign of the cross. “It is very likely Peter was among the prisoners there.”
“And that’s where the chain was from?” Paavo asked, a little impatient with the sermon.
“You’re getting ahead of my story.” Maria cast him a reproachful look. “There’s also a legend that has to do with the Mamertine Prison in the Forum. It was a damp, dark prison, and water soaked up through the floor. It is said that when Peter was in that prison, he used the water to baptize two guards. The guards freed Peter and told him to run. Since the Church venerates the guards as the martyrs Processus and Martinianus, you can imagine what happened after it was discovered that Peter was gone.”
A chill rippled down Paavo’s back. “Yes, I can,” he said quietly.
Maria continued, nodding. “As Peter was hurrying to leave the city, via the Appian Way, he managed to somehow remove his chains. A woman gathered them up and hid them in her house, and that’s how they came to be saved. Peter, however, didn’t leave Rome that day. As he reached the Via Ardeatina, he saw Christ walking toward him. He said, ‘Domine, quo vadis?’—‘Lord, where are you going?’ Jesus told him he was going to Rome to be crucified again. Peter said he would follow him there, but then Jesus disappeared.” Maria’s voice turned very soft. “At that moment, Peter knew he had to return to Rome, and that he would be the one who was crucified.”
Paavo knew this part of the story. “Peter returned and was captured again and martyred on Vatican Hill.”
Maria nodded. “The Roman historian Tacitus writes how Nero mingled with the people disguised as a chariot driver and raced in his private stadium, which was opened to the Roman public for the occasion. The audience mocked and scorned those who died. Some of them were covered with animal skins and were torn apart by dogs, or were hanged on crosses, or when the sun set they were burned alive to light up the night sky.”
Yosh visibly winced at the image.
Paavo felt disgust, and wondered what terrible thing it said about mankind that two millennia later people were still being killed and persecuted for their beliefs.
“The Roman chain that the woman saved was revered,” Maria said. “It was housed in an early church on the spot where Peter was held prisoner. Later, on that spot, the present basilica was erected, and the chains that had bound Peter in Jerusalem when the angel visited and set him free—it’s in the ‘Acts of the Apostles’—were also brought to Rome. That’s why the chain displayed at the altar today has two parts to it. The first has twenty-three rectangular links attached to a larger link for the neck; the second has
eleven links, plus larger links for the wrists.”
“Is it possible,” Paavo inquired, “that more chains exist?”
Maria studied him closely. “Certainly it is. Peter was imprisoned several times. He came to Rome for a reason, suffered and died there. Relics or artifacts of the event are sacred. And in Rome”—her eyes seemed to darken—”they must remain.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re getting into the heart of the Roman Catholic faith—my faith—with these chains, Paavo,” Maria said. “I hope you realize and respect that.” She looked at her audience. “All of you. We see Peter as the first Pope, and all Popes who followed as successors to him. That’s why Peter is so important to us, and why chains that touched him would be looked on with absolute reverence. Their value would be incalculable.”
Paavo and Yosh exchanged glances.
“Now, it’s time to go,” she announced to Paavo.
“To go?” That was news to him.
“We need to finish this investigation so that my sisters can come home.”
Looking at Maria at that moment, Paavo could well imagine her in a wimple and robes. And ready to smack his knuckles with a ruler if he were so presumptuous as to not obey.
Angie and Cat were shooed from the restaurant as Bruno locked up. He insisted they leave, even though they offered to stay and make more pasta, scrub the floors, inventory the supplies—whatever he wanted. He was clearly suspicious of the offer, and wouldn’t agree to it.
The two women ended up out on the dark street.
This part of Rome was quiet at night. Many of the people here were visiting clerics who came to be near or to study at the Vatican. They were people who also tended to go to sleep at an early hour.
“Well, that sure worked well.” Cat’s voice dripped sarcasm. “They got a lot of work out of us, and we got exactly nothing. Good job, Angie.”
“As if you should complain! You sat and watched Cosimo work while I did his job!” Angie sniped. “But I did overhear two archeologists talking.”
“Archeologists in Rome,” Cat said with fake awe. “Whatever will they think of next?”
Both perturbed, they marched in silence toward their hotel when a car pulled up against the curb. Angie froze. Was it just someone who lived in the area, parking, or was it something more ominous? The streetlights were few and far between on this side street, and she couldn’t see inside the car to tell who was in it.
Her eyes met Cat’s. Both were unsure whether they should run or not—and if so, toward their hotel or back toward the restaurant?
Two car doors opened. A man got out of one side, a woman on the other. She lit into him, and he argued back. She headed down the street, and he ran after her. Before long they reached the corner, turned, and were out of sight.
“Whew!” Angie said. “I guess our nerves are a little shot.”
“Don’t say shot around me.” A chill came over Cat and she hugged her jacket tight against her. “Let’s hurry.”
The two sisters chortled in relief over their nervousness, and kept going.
Suddenly, from the shadows, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in front of them, the streetlight behind him. Angie gasped and started backpedaling. “Run, Cat!” she cried, reaching for her sister.
To her shock, Cat stood her ground. Hands on hips, she scowled. “Marcello! It’s about time!”
Angie blinked, and sidled next to her.
“What are you doing, Trina?” Marcello’s voice, a deep rumble, sounded both cross and worried, yet he looked at Cat as if he were starving and she was a feast. “Why are you here? Why are you and others asking for me at my hotel and restaurant?”
As he spoke, he moved closer, and Angie was finally able to get a good look at the man. He might have been handsome, but he was too flashy for her taste. His hair and sideburns were too long, his clothes too fitted, Italian shoes too pointy, and pinky ring too big.
“Others?” Angie asked, baffled. “What others?”
Instead of answering her, he thrust a broad chin in Angie’s direction and addressed Cat. “Why did you bring your sister?”
Cat put her arms around Angie’s shoulders and pulled her close in what could pass for a hug from anyone but Cat. “Because I didn’t know what you were up to! Angie, say hello to Marcello.”
Angie said a quick “Hi.”
“Yeah, hi,” Marcello said, his steady gaze never leaving Cat’s face. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She dropped her arm from around Angie. “Why did you accuse me of stealing your chain of St. Peter?” she asked.
Chain of St. Peter? Angie couldn’t believe the question. What about the dead man in his kitchen? Hello?
“What are you talking about?” Marcello looked truly shocked. Angie didn’t think the man could be that good an actor. “I never said such a thing.”
“Where is the chain, then?” Cat demanded.
He hesitated. “Where should it be? It’s in the wall safe. I showed you!”
“It’s not there,” Cat snapped.
“How do you know?
“Marcello, when you use the last four digits of your phone number, and you open it when I’m standing right there watching, how could I not remember?” She looked at him as if he were a child.
Forget about the chain, Angie wanted to shout. What about the dead man?
“Why are you in Rome, Trina?” Marcello asked, ignoring Cat’s question. “What do you care if my chain was stolen?”
Angie’s head bounced from one to the other. The way he called her sister “Trina,” the nickname she’d use while she was growing up until she decided it was too ethnic and unsophisticated, and the words Cat almost said . . . the two sounded close, with a history. Could they have been having an affair? She found it hard to imagine her sophisticated sister with someone like Marcello, but what else could it be? Was that why Cat had no fear when she thought she was following him to the airport even though the man could be a murderer?
Cat explained to him about being fired, going to his house, finding the dead body, and then following Rocco. He was shocked to learn a man had been murdered in his home. He swore he had no idea who it might be.
“Whoever was in your house looked like you, Marcello. I thought it was you. But when we got to the airport, we were told he was your brother, Rocco.”
Marcello’s face went through a panoply of reactions.
“When did you come to Rome?” Cat pressed.
“Monday.” His answer was almost defiant. “Something came up real quick. Some people wanted to buy land from my uncle’s estate—the uncle who gave me the restaurant when he got too old to run it. I decided to handle it myself, make sure they weren’t trying to cheat me, you know?”
“You didn’t tell me!”
Surprisingly, he looked hurt. “Would you have cared?”
Cat glanced at Angie, but Angie had no reaction. His words sounded genuine, but she didn’t know how good a liar he might be. Cat would know, and she seemed confused.
Angie decided it was time to speak up. “The police are looking for us. They want to question Cat, and some people in the force consider her a suspect.”
Marcello’s glower was harsh. “If the chain is gone, and a man has died”—he glanced over his shoulder as if he’d heard something—“you could be in serious danger, Cat. Someone might think you know more than you do. Where are you staying?”
Even in the dark, Angie could see her sister turn pale. Could that be why they seemed to be watched everywhere they went?
Cat gave him the name of the hotel.
“No good. It’s a cracker box. Go back to the restaurant. There’s a room above it. I used it when I was young, broke, and first took over the place when my uncle got too old and sick.” He took a key off his key chain and handed it to Cat. “This will unlock the door in the alley. No one will find you there.”
“We should go back home,” Angie said to Cat.
“Back there?” Marc
ello regarded her as if she was very foolish. “Back to where this all started? That might be the worst place for you.”
Cat’s eyes rounded. “He might be right, Angie.”
“But . . . ” Angie stopped. She couldn’t ask right then why they should trust Marcello, not when he was standing there. Cat trusted him, but she didn’t.
“You’ll be safe,” Marcello gripped Cat’s shoulders. “I’ll tell Bruno and we’ll all keep an eye on you.” Again his gaze traveled over the dark street a moment before he let her go. “I knew something strange was going on, but nothing like this.”
Angie caught Cat’s eye and mouthed, His mother.
Cat looked stricken as she realized what she was going to have to tell him. From Marcello’s demeanor, it was obvious he didn’t yet know.
“Marcello—whatever’s going on, you might not be safe either.”
“I know,” he said stepping back, away from them. “Go to the room. I’ll find you. I’ve got to go now.”
“Wait!” Cat said, “I have something to tell you.”
But he was already running down the street.
Chapter 20
“I’m praying for them, Paavo. Praying very hard,” Maria said as they rode to the Valencia district. Serefina knew a woman who was close friends with Flora Piccoletti, and had instructed Maria to bring Paavo to the woman’s house.
“So am I, Maria,” Paavo admitted.
“It’s funny,” Maria’s voice was soft, “how easy it is to take one’s sisters for granted. They aren’t like parents, who are older and you know you’re going to have to face losing someday, or your children, who are beyond precious and remain in your heart and thoughts every moment they’re out of sight. Sisters—and brothers, too, I suppose—are just there. They’re part of your foundation, your support. You don’t pay much attention or even notice them until something goes wrong, then like a table that’s lost a leg, you go all wobbly. It’s hard to describe.”
Paavo saw the sorrow and worry on her face. “I understand what you’re saying.”