The Da Vinci Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery

by Joanne Pence

  They had to hope that while Stefano was a junkie or gambler—or whatever his “expensive habits,” as he’d put it, were—he wasn’t a killer, and he’d either run off or simply let them go.

  And so they waited, each coming up with myriad ways the plan could fail.

  “Father,” Angie said after a while, “you told us earlier what will happen to the chain of St. Peter if it’s authenticated. But if it isn’t, what happens then?”

  “It’ll be locked away as just another unknown item in the basement of the Vatican. The basement storage area goes on for miles and miles. So much is down there, not even the Vatican has a complete inventory. Lay and clerical archivists have worked for centuries to catalogue the items, but it takes a lot of knowledge and expertise to know enough about what you’re looking at in order to catalogue it. What one man might see as a piece of sheet music, a musicologist might recognize as a previously unknown work by Monteverdi or Vivaldi.”

  “So, very likely, it’ll be buried again,” Angie murmured. “That doesn’t seem right. The elderly priest I met at St. Monica’s seemed to think it should be displayed. He said, ‘to help them remember.’ I’m not sure what he meant.”

  “He said that?” Father Daniel asked. At her confirmation, he was silent for a long moment. “It reminds me of a strange experience I had when I was in the seminary. In the churchyard one day, I met a visiting priest from Italy. The other seminarians said they didn’t notice him with me. They thought I was just sleeping out there and didn’t disturb me because I’d been staying up late studying for exams. Yet, that priest was as real to me as you are.

  “We talked about helping the poor and having a parish. The priest believed that most people search for something deeply meaningful beyond themselves. Some find it in Catholicism. Others elsewhere—Buddhism, Islam, a tree, spirits and faeries, or—as I’ve heard some people in your hometown of San Francisco once did—a fire plug. Anyway, it’s in the nature of man to search, the priest said, but many people get so caught up in the tedium of their lives that they stop looking. They grow bored and disillusioned and hopeless. It’s a priest’s duty, he said, to help them renew their search for the truth that opens their lives. Help them remember God, and remember faith.” When Daniel stopped speaking, quiet and darkness settled over them again.

  “The priest at St. Monica’s seemed to think the chain could do that,” Angie said, “and that it was real.”

  “It might be,” Father Daniel conceded. “The more I think about it, though, I doubt it matters. You said it, Angie, when you first saw that harsh, rough, ugly piece of iron. It reminded you of the very earliest days of Christianity, and how a motley group of apostles, despite persecution and martyrdom, spread their faith against what—using logic alone—were impossible odds. Yet they did it. Now, when many people look at the Church, all they see are riches, scandals, and politics. They don’t remember anymore what it all means: faith and divine grace. Maybe that’s why the chain has shown up here, now. To help all of us remember.”

  Angie wasn’t sure if she should ask something so personal, but she knew Daniel had been struggling. “Has it helped you?”

  His lengthy silence made her think she’d gone too far, but then he spoke. “I was a very scholarly sort, even in the seminary, and because of that, I was encouraged to come to the Vatican. It’s a great honor. I love the Vatican, I truly do, but that wasn’t the reason I joined the clergy. I did it to work with the people, especially the poor. I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten a lot, caught up in the majesty, the pomp, and the importance of my more intellectual pursuits. I need to go back to the beginning, back to the basis of my love of God. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it. . . .”

  “I think you would, Father,” Angie said. “Look at how you’ve tried to help me and my sister. You could have shut the door on us. Our own cousin did. But you’re here with us, doing your best, no matter the danger.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Angie.” Then, considering their circumstance, she heard the deprecating smile in his voice as he added, “I’m only sorry I didn’t do a whole lot better.”

  “Did you ever meet the visiting priest again after you came to Rome?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve concluded the others were right. It was only a dream. Although he didn’t have a terribly uncommon name, there’s no longer any living priest in or near Rome with it, and hasn’t been for many, many years.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Father Pio.”

  “Pio?” Angie shivered. That was the name of the priest she’d met.

  And she, as well, had been told his visit was a dream.

  She pondered what Daniel had just said, especially that there was no longer any Father Pio in the area. “When I think about yesterday morning,” she began, “about the rain, the warmth of the little church, the comfort offered by the elderly priest, I can’t say I know what happened. Maybe I did dream the entire thing. In my heart, I don’t think so. As the nuns in school used to say, ‘It’s a mystery.’ Or, ‘You must have faith.’ Maybe that’s what this is all about. My faith, to a degree . . . but even more than that, it’s about yours.” She placed her hand on his arm. “It seems you have some decisions to make. Some very serious decisions.”

  As Paavo stood with Charles and the policeman watching Rocco, he saw two strange men, one big and hulking, the other slight, with a black goatee, creeping stealthily toward the gate Rocco had opened.

  As Rocco entered the building inside the fence, the two men began to run.

  Paavo began to run as well.

  Chapter 42

  The creaking sound of the heavy door opening was the first thing Angie heard. A thin patina of sunlight fell over the excavation area.

  She pressed herself flat against the wall, the rope tight in her hands, praying Rocco wouldn’t be able to see her. “It’s time!” Rocco shouted. Angie heard him grunt with effort, and soon realized why. The ladder. He was carrying it toward them, to the edge of the pit. He must be alone. She tensed. Soon she’d learn if her plan was going to work.

  “Where is it?” The voice was a familiar one, although not Rocco’s or the archeologist’s.

  “Who are you?” Rocco demanded, angry, surprised, and with a hint of fear.

  “That’s none of your business.” Angie recognized the taunting voice: Goatee. “All you need to know is that we’re sick and tired of you stupid Americans making us look bad. We want that chain. Now.”

  Rocco dropped the ladder to the ground. One end of it extended about three feet out over the edge of the pit. “I don’t have it!” he shouted.

  “Where are the women?” The Hulk’s heavy footsteps trod closer. “Down there?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rocco fumed. “Get out!”

  “You’re lying!” Goatee’s words were shrill and frantic. “You’ve got the chain here. You’re going to give it to us now!”

  “I’ll give it to you, all right,” Rocco said.

  A gunshot exploded, echoing through the excavation pit. Father Daniel dropped to the ground. Cat curled into a ball. Angie huddled, covering her ears against the painful reverberation even as there was another gunshot, then a third.

  Suddenly the building was filled with shouts and footsteps. The police!

  They were yelling for the men to drop their guns, calling for medics, ordering the gunmen outside.

  Cat started forward, and Angie frantically gestured her back. She looked surprised for just a moment, then backed into the shadows. She understood. If the police learned about them, they’d be gathered up and questioned for heaven only knew how long.

  Father Daniel went to Angie’s side. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “We need their help to get out of here!”

  She pointed to the end of the ladder sticking out over the pit. “As soon as they’ve gone, we’ll toss the rope over a rung and pull it down here. We’ll use a ladder to climb out of the pit.”

  Daniel lo
oked dubious. “If it doesn’t work . . . ?”

  “We’ll yell our heads off. Don’t worry, it’ll work,” she said firmly.

  The police continued to shout orders. From what she heard, Rocco, Goatee, and the Hulk had been shot, but not seriously. All were able to walk.

  The police hurried them out of the excavation site for medical attention and to be arrested.

  As soon as everything quieted down, Father Daniel tossed a long length of rope over a rung, then worked it so he held both ends. He tugged, and the lightweight ladder tipped down, then slid like a shot off the edge toward them. Angie and Cat grasped and steadied it.

  Father Daniel held it as Angie climbed up. Near the top she stopped and peeked. When she spotted a policeman in the doorway, she cowered again. “Wait,” she whispered to the others. She hoped the police would clear the place soon and leave.

  Anxious, she peered over the top again. The policeman was gone, but she saw the silhouette of a different man fill the open doorway. He was tall, trim, and broad-shouldered, and looked so much like Paavo her heart skipped a beat. But that, she knew, was impossible. Knowing how much she missed him, her mind was playing tricks on her.

  “I thought for sure they’d be in here,” he said.

  Angie was so stunned, a moment passed before she could react. “Paavo!” She scrambled up the ladder, grateful to be on ground level once again. “We’re here!”

  She flew into Paavo’s arms while Charles ran to the pit.

  “Charles?” Cat looked at him with wonder as she climbed out. “I don’t believe it. You came to Italy? To find me?”

  “Of course I came to find you!” He stood near, not touching her, waiting. Then he said, “How could I not come? I love you, you silly woman! Don’t you know that?”

  She simply stared at him, then said, “You do, don’t you?”

  “Of course!”

  “Oh, Charles!” Tears filled her eyes as they hugged and kissed. She drew back and gazed steadily at him. “You’re what’s important to me. You and Kenny—more than anything else in the world. I love you, Charles. How did I forget that? Can you ever forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, holding her close.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Paavo said as he held Angie, a dopey grin on his face now that he was with her again. “We’ve got to talk. It’s not over yet.”

  “It’s not?” Just then, in the dimly lit excavation area, Angie saw Father Daniel toss the rope out of the pit and start to climb out himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Very quickly, he eased himself back down again.

  She spun around to see what had frightened him.

  “What a happy scene,” a man’s voice called out.

  His silhouette was in the doorway.

  “Jerome Ranker,” Paavo said. His arm tightened around Angie as he noticed Ranker’s gun. “Part owner of Moldwell-Ranker Realtors. I wondered if you’d show up.”

  “Put that gun down, Mr. Ranker!” Cat ordered, letting go of Charles and marching forward. Charles tried to stop her, but she shook his hand away. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You can’t do this! You’re a wealthy man. And an important one.”

  “I was. But you know what they say about housing bubbles—bubbles float higher and higher when the winds are good and strong, but then they burst and come crashing down to earth. When a person is leveraged, the slightest downturn hits hard. And maybe I did get a bit carried away with my investments. . . . In any event, I know a collector who’ll spend a fortune for that chain. The money will come in handy.”

  “But murder? Oh, Jerome!” Cat looked at him with complete disdain.

  Angie pulled free of Paavo and slowly eased herself toward the rope. He saw, and a puzzled, worried frown lined his brow.

  “I didn’t want anyone dead,” Ranker countered. “I really don’t know how it all became so complicated. The young fool, Ferguson, knew how to enter the house. He knew how to get into the safe. All he had to do was walk in and take the chain. Then I’d sell it. That’s all. No one was supposed to get hurt.”

  “Not get hurt?” Cat yelled. “Why did you involve me, then? Why did Meredith say Marcello called and accused me of stealing the chain? That doesn’t make sense!”

  The area was dark enough that by moving very slowly, Angie wasn’t noticed as she bent to pick up one end of the rope and hold it tight against her side.

  “I agree.” Ranker glanced at Cat while keeping the gun fixed on Paavo. “Poor little Cat. You were only involved because I’m surrounded by incompetents. You see, it really was a simple plan. I’d been told by Ferguson that Marcello Piccoletti had gone to Italy. I wanted you off the sale—away from Piccoletti’s house. I told Meredith to do something to get you away so you wouldn’t meddle in this.”

  Angie stepped to Cat’s side. “You had no business firing my sister!” she yelled. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, she slipped the end of the rope into Cat’s hand. Cat’s eyes widened with confusion, but she kept the rope, shifting so her hand was behind her back.

  “I didn’t fire her!” Ranker shouted.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Angie apologetically held her empty hands up and moved back, near the rope again.

  “That stupid cow Meredith,” Ranker said to Cat, “decided that accusing you of theft was the best way to get rid of you. Ferguson must have heard and got the monogrammed handkerchief to pin the blame for the theft on you. Unfortunately, when he went to get the relic, he walked in on the two brothers. Guns were pulled. One brother shot the other; Ferguson dropped the handkerchief and ran.”

  “A nice story,” Paavo said. “Too bad it’s not true.”

  “Of course it is!” Ranker declared.

  “Except that the bullet that killed Marcello Piccoletti is from the same gun as the one used to kill Meredith Woring.”

  “Meredith is dead?” Cat was stunned. She gripped the end of the rope tight.

  Angie was very slowly easing herself farther away from Cat.

  “You, Ranker, were the one in the Piccoletti house that day,” Paavo said. “You decided to get the chain and plant the evidence yourself, but instead of an empty house, you walked in on the two brothers. You killed Marcello.”

  “No!” Ranker snapped, then lifted his chin. “It was Ferguson. He killed Meredith as well.”

  “Have you forgotten,” Paavo said, “that Ferguson was at work until twelve-thirty that day? He didn’t have time to travel all the way to Tiburon to break into Cat’s house, steal the handkerchief, and be at the Piccoletti home one hour later to kill anyone. Besides, people saw him outside, dressed as a priest at the time of the murders. The whole thing was a ruse by you. A ruse to throw the police off your trail.”

  Cat noticed Angie was even farther from her. Angie, too, held an end of rope. Suddenly, Cat understood. Seeing that Ranker’s attention was on Paavo, she began to glide slowly in the opposite direction.

  “You had to instruct Ferguson to get the C.A.S. handkerchief sometime before the day of the murder,” Paavo said. “The entire thing was premeditated. Steal the chain, kill the owner, run. Cat would be one suspect—and Ferguson, hanging around for all to see in a priest’s outfit, and who happened to be the security system installer, would be the second. Ferguson could try to accuse you, but he’d have no proof.

  “But you ran into problems right away, didn’t you? First”—Paavo held out one finger, purposefully trying to draw Ranker’s attention his way—“there were two owners in the house, not one. You killed one brother, but the other escaped with the chain.

  “Second”—two fingers pointed toward Ranker—“Cat Swenson showed up, and she saw what happened.”

  Then three fingers. “When word got out about Flora Piccoletti’s death, Meredith Woring became very, very nervous—so hysterical, in fact, you decided to calm her nerves permanently. Also, Flora must have told Ferguson about Da Vinci’s restaurant before he killed her because you hired two Italian mobsters to go there and follow Piccoletti, Cat, and Angie,
or whoever else they thought might lead them to the chain.

  “Your fourth problem”—four fingers extended—“was Rocco Piccoletti. After two deaths, you needed to get the chain from him in order to have the money to escape the law. That brought you here.

  “And five”—he held out his hand, all fingers outstretched, at Ranker—“was Cat herself. She would be able to figure out who was behind it. You decided to get rid of her, too.” He crushed his hand into a fist. “That’s a lot of killing, Ranker, for one iron chain that nobody’s even verified is what some archeologists who wanted to make a little extra money said it was.”

  “Shut up!” Ranker’s shrill shriek reverberated through the enclosure. “All I want is the chain! Let me have it and I’ll go. You’ll be free.” He looked at the two women and realized how far from him they’d moved. “What are you doing there? Get back here!”

  “You want the chain,” Angie said calmly. “I’ll tell you where it is!”

  He stepped toward her.

  “Daniel!” she called, hoping he’d been peeking enough to understand what she had in mind. “You have to give it up!”

  “No!” he yelled. She nearly cried with relief that he’d given the right answer.

  “It’s over Daniel,” she said. “Come up here and give it up!”

  “Never!” his disembodied voice called. “Threaten me, and I’ll throw it to the farthest reaches of the pit, where it’ll take days to find!”

  “You son of a bitch!” Ranker yelled. “You toss it and I’ll shoot every last one of you bastar— Oops!”

  As he rushed toward the edge to threaten Daniel, Angie and Cat lifted the rope. Seeing Ranker stumble, without even thinking about what he was doing, Charles gave him a shove.

  Ranker toppled headfirst into the pit.

  Angie beamed at Cat. “I told you my rope idea would work.”

  Chapter 43

  Angie, Paavo, Cat, and Charles sat in the bar of the St. Regis Grand Hotel in Rome. They had finally finished many long, grueling hours at the Ministry of the Interior, giving their statements and explaining all they could about the situation with Jerome Ranker, the two goons he’d hired, Piccoletti, the archeologists, and the three employees of Da Vinci’s restaurant.