A Fashion Felon in Rome (6 page)

Exhaust fumes
choked me as I walked through the parking garage at a safe distance from Massimo.  There was no need for our hand holding charade to continue in front of Tomaso’s parents.  I glanced over at the dedicated investigator, perceiving a fierce nervousness in his characteristically cool demeanor.

“This way,” he barked, pointing to the right as I veered off to the left.  “Baggage claim is this way.”

Woodenly, I followed Massimo through a set of glass doors to the massive room where baggage carousels spun in perpetual circles.  Immediately, Tomaso’s parents were recognizable.  Streaks of teardrops and reddened cheeks were visible from all the way across the room.  A gray haired replica of Tomaso stood beside a petite beauty with upswept hair and rounded features.

Massimo walked directly over to the couple, clasping both his hands over theirs in a silent gesture of condolence.  I glanced up in surprise as he murmured a few words in Spanish as the couple nodded and pursed their lips sadly.  Their eyes brightened as Massimo introduced me.  Tomaso’s mother looked deep into my eyes
and warmly shook my hand as
Señor
Alegres did the same.

In a flurry of Spanish, Massimo apprised the parents of what had transpired so far regarding the quest to identify their son’s killer.  Bits and pieces of the language were similar enough to Italian for me to decode the basics of the conversation.  My imagination wandered as I contemplated whether Massimo had lived in Spain as well as in England.  His Spanish was practically flawless. 
Then again, many Europeans were multilingual.  My cell phone vibrated inside my purse, snapping my attention from Massimo to Richard whose number flashed on the screen.

Excusing myself in Italian, I walked a few paces away to take the call.  “Hi sweetie!”

“Hey babe,” he groaned longingly.  “Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

“Um,” I faltered.  If I told Richard I was at the airport, he would mistakenly assume that I was coming home early.  One glimpse into the soulful eyes of Tomaso’s parents and I knew I had to see the investigation
through to completion.  Overhead, a voice announced that Flight 461 to Athens had been delayed.  Apparently, the decision of what to tell Richard wasn’t mine to make.

“Are you at an airport?” He asked in astonishment.

“Yes, but I’m not here to get on a flight,” I hastily clarified.

“Then what are you doing at the airport?” He asked incredulously.

Sighing, I realized that I needed to tell Richard about the tragedy that had occurred.  I couldn’t deceive him with a story of meeting a friend at the airport or some other imaginative yarn.  Gathering strength from the sight of the stoic, dignified mourners huddled just a few steps away, I told Richard everything in precise detail.  He stayed ominously silent throughout the story, heaving an enormous sigh when I finished speaking.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Gianna.  You’re not really going to put yourself in the middle of a murder investigation, are you?” He sounded more angry than worried.

“I’m already in the middle of it whether I like it or not,” I replied.  “Believe me, I’m not thrilled about it, but I feel like I need to help.”

“Why? You only met this guy once.  What makes you feel that you have to help solve the murder of a total stranger?”

“There’s nothing wrong with helping a stranger.  The world would be a better place if more people helped strangers…”

“Don’t be naïve, Gianna.  You’re putting yourself in harm’s way.  If the damn regional manager wasn’t flying in from Seattle tomorrow, I’d be on the first plane to Rome.”

“I wouldn’t want you to do that anyway and uproot your life,” I said gently, eager to get off the phone and rejoin the European trio that waited for me expectantly.

“When are you coming home?” Richard demanded impatiently.

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

“How can you even afford to stay there? And what about your tailor shop? Do you need me to wire you money?”

“No, I don’t need any money.  The victim’s family is probably going to take care of that.  And as for my shop,” I paused, reflecting on the minuscule storefront I had operated begrudgingly for the past 7 years.  It was a feeble version of what I wanted to do with my life.  Would it be the worst thing if my tailor shop went out of business? No, what would be far worse is if I never reached for my dream of being a fashion designer…and if I abandoned a murder inquest to which I could possibly hold the key.  “As for my shop,
che sera sera
.  What will be, will be,” I philosophized.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  Is all the pasta going to your head?” Richard asked scornfully as my lips thinned into a frown line.

“Listen, Rich, could I call you later? This isn’t the best place for us to talk,” I shouted over yet another flight delay announcement.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he scoffed.  “Fine, I’ll talk to you later.”

Richard ended the call, leaving me feeling alone and disoriented in the Italian airport.  Maybe I had become too dependent on him in the past year.  Maybe I needed to hurl myself out of my comfort zone and put a little space between us. 
Destiny
.  I reflected on the word momentarily before making my way over to Massimo.

***

Three hours later, I got back into Massimo’s car, rubbing my weary temples.  The Alegres had kept us a captive audience at the airport’s Starbucks, sharing adorable and poignant stories of their son’s childhood while we sipped countless
cappuccino refills.  Instead of feeling wired from all the caffeine, I felt utterly exhausted, more emotionally affected from learning about Tomaso than I wanted to admit.

“Tomaso may have come from money, but he wasn’t a spoiled little rich boy,” Massimo commented as I nodded in agreement.

“I know.  I can’t believe how much charity work he did back in Barcelona.  The scholarship fund he created for underprivileged kids.  And the free boating lessons to local teenagers.  I guess he worked hard and played hard,” I mused.

“Exactly,” Massimo concurred.  “We’ve got to find out who cut the brakes on his boat.  And the sooner the better.  The next time I see Lola and Pablo Alegres, I want to have some good news for them.” His tone was gruff and determined.

“Are you open to new ideas?” I queried hopefully.  During our epic coffee meeting with Tomaso’s parents, an unorthodox strategy had dawned on me.

“Absolutely,” Massimo said firmly.

“Really?” I doubted his sincerity.  “Because so far you’ve discarded all my ideas as ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry.  Old habits die hard.  I’ve been doing this for a long time,” he said sheepishly.  “But yes, I’m open to your idea.  What do you have in mind?”

Gathering a full breath, I parted my lips and whispered words that would make Massimo view me either as a dodo bird back from extinction…or Albert Einstein reincarnated as a voluptuous brunette.

Chapter 7

“Let’s throw a party.” The words flowed from my lips with an unintentional gasp at the end.  My crazy idea even had me shocked.

“Excuse me?” Massimo appeared dumbfounded.

I swallowed nervously, realizing how incongruous the idea of throwing a party was in the wake of a young man’s death.  “Just hear me out,” I urged.  “It gets better.”

“Okay,” Massimo sighed.  “I don’t see how your idea could possibly get any worse. So go on.”

“Of course we would need the Alegres’ permission to do this, but they seemed open to try any tactic to catch their son’s murderer.  So I’m sure they’ll get on board,” I prefaced as Massimo persisted to look completely aghast.  “My idea is to throw a party near the Tiber River where Tomaso was killed.  We’ll call it a memorial service.  A celebration of his life.  We’ll invite everyone who he knew here in Italy. Everyone from Sophia Pucci’s posse.”

“Okay, hang on, I think I may actually understand what you’re trying to do,” Massimo said excitedly.

“You do?” Exit the dodo bird back to extinction.

“Yes.  You want to gather everyone together in a social setting.  With some wine and good food.  Everyone will be relaxed…”

“And likely to let the truth slip in conversation,” I finished triumphantly.

“I don’t know about ‘likely,’” Massimo argued skeptically.  “But it’s possible.  And as long as it’s okay with Lola and Pablo.”

“I bet they’ll fund the whole thing,” I predicted.

“Perhaps.  It will also be interesting to see who
doesn’t
show up.  Absence at an event like this could be even more incriminating than presence.”

“Right,” I added.  “A guilty conscience could keep the murderer away.”

“You know, this idea of yours is actually good.  It is crazy, though.” He smirked at me.

“Just crazy enough to work,” I corrected. “Are you calling Tomaso’s parents?” I asked as Massimo reached for his phone.

“Yes…” he stopped himself, frowning as he read a message on the screen.  “I just got a text from the police.”

“What does it say? Did they find the murderer?” I pounced eagerly.

“No, they’ve just confirmed that Tomaso’s wallet is missing.  Probably stolen.  It hadn’t been found on his body and no one could locate it in his hotel room either.”

“Do they know who stole it?”

“No, not yet.  Add that to our long list of things to figure out.”

“Well, the stolen wallet isn’t necessarily related to the murder,” I reasoned.  “It could have been stolen by a maid at the hotel or some other staff member who knew about Tomaso’s wealth.”

“That is a possibility.  A more likely possibility, though, is that the same person who snipped the brakes on Tomaso’s boat also pocketed his wallet.”

“Really? I don’t think that makes sense,” I disagreed, starting to enjoy the inquisitive role in a case that had been thrown at me like water balloons.  “Whoever cut the brakes probably didn’t want to be seen.  My gut feeling is that the person got the job done really quickly, figuring out which boat Tomaso had
bought and disappearing right after clipping the brakes.”

“You’re getting better at this whole crime solving thing, you know?” Massimo looked at me with authentic admiration. 

“Maybe I’ll become a detective if fashion design doesn’t pan out,” I joked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Massimo said soberly.

“I was just kidding! Please! I’ve been sewing since I was 3 years old.  Actually, I could hold a needle and thread long before I knew what to do with a pencil and paper!” I warmly reminisced about the cloth dolls and baby blankets my mother had taught me to sew.

“Three years old and sewing? That would make you a prodigy.”

“No,” I protested. “That would make my mother a good parent who showed her daughter how to be creative.”

“You’re close to your family?” Massimo inquired.

“Yes, very.  I’m sure there will be a big spaghetti and meatball dinner at my parents’ house to welcome me home.” My stomach grumbled at the thought of my mother’s hearty Italian cooking.

“Mmmm, I could go for some spaghetti right now.  Would you like to get some dinner? We could plan the party and figure out our next move.” Massimo’s eyes transformed into pools of seduction.

I hesitated for a few breaths, feeling like I would be cheating on Richard if I had dinner with Massimo.  But it was for business purposes, right? As long as I conducted myself with decorum and kept the conversation focused on the investigation---rather than Massimo’s sexy midnight orbs---I had nothing to feel guilty about.

“It wouldn’t be a date,” Massimo said hastily, sensing my uncertainty.  “I’m not trying to take you away from your boyfriend.”

“How did you know I have a boyfriend?” I asked. 

“It’s obvious,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well I also wouldn’t want to take you away from your girlfriend or whoever…” I was shamelessly fishing for information, but I couldn’t help myself.

“No lady in my life.  I don’t have time.  My job as a private investigator is 24/7.  And it involves frequent travel.  I wouldn’t be surprised if this case eventually brought me to Barcelona,” Massimo mused as my heart sank from his stony perspective on relationships. 

What is wrong with you, Gianna
? I silently chided myself. 
Who cares if this man doesn’t have time for love? You have Richard.

“Anyway, I’m up for dinner if you still are.” I shifted back to a neutral subject as Massimo nodded and prepared to pull out of the airport lot.

“
Andiamo,”
he said.  “Let’s go!”

***

Hours later, Massimo and I emerged from a 4 course Italian feast.  I had gloriously stuffed my face with enough carbs to give me the energy needed for an Iron Man competition.  From the oil-dipped bread to the macaroni spirals in vodka sauce to the espresso-soaked tiramisu, the meal had been an exercise in overindulgence.  Leaning back in the seat of Massimo’s car, I giggled as I felt the zipper of my pants pop ever so slightly.

“Feeling giddy from the wine?” Massimo guessed.