Italy to Die For (19 page)

Chapter 29

From Lemon
s 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 sai
d. “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 star
ters: 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 hav
e 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.

“Oka
y, you’ve made a believer of me,” I told him. “But first, a quick trip back to Lorenzo’s so I can pack a few things.”

“Same here,” he said. “Shall we meet at the train station in …” He pau
sed to check his watch. “Say, one hour?”

An
hour, easy enough for Jonathan, his hotel sat across from the boardwalk. “I’ll ask the desk clerk to call a cab,” he said, “one that will wait while you pack your bags.”

“Yo
u think of everything.” Nice. There’s nothing like a man who takes charge.

***

I left the cab waiting in front of Lorenzo’s building while I unlocked the outer door, much easier with the key already in my hand than first having to do a shoulder stand to retrieve the spare overhead. Thinking about the asinine scenario now was more amusing than having to deal with it that night. That night had only been last night, enough time elapsed for me to have some fun before El and I decided to move on. Unless Lorenzo convinced her otherwise which I had a feeling he would.

Hurrying up two flights of
steep stairs reminded me not to bring a bag heavier than I could carry or roll back down. Damn, I hadn’t thought about bringing the cabbie with me. Couldn’t think of everything and too excited, I guess, over a budget-priced trip presented to me by Jonathan from Iowa who had the potential of becoming the best happening on this trip.

B
y the time I’d reached the third level, my lungs were sending out an SOS for air and giving me a good reason to reconsider joining that pricey gym back home. The door to Lorenzo’s apartment was slightly ajar so I pushed it all the way open. Inside, a trail of clothing El and Lorenzo had been wearing hours before made its way across the living room and stopped with a pair of boxer shorts and bikini panties this side of the closed door to his bedroom. Behind that door came the sounds of lovemaking mixed with Lorenzo’s coaxing words and El’s hesitant laughter. Good for you, Sis, I wanted to tell her, words that would have to wait until a more appropriate time. I tiptoed to our bedroom, okay mine, and packed enough items to last three days, more than I needed but one could never be too prepared. Hardly the time to give El a call, I thought, better to leave a note.

E,

Ran into Jonathan, of all people who’s not as bad as I first thought. We’re taking the train to Rapallo and from there a boat to San Margherita and Portofino where he’s promised to wine and dine me. Gotta go, cab’s waiting. See you in a few days.

Take care and have fun.

M

Chapter 30

No Time for Tears

“What’s that?” Lorenzo’s tongue was circling my ear, giving me goose bumps I did not want to stop. “It sounded like a door closing.”

“
Your sister must have changed her mind.”

“And
if she heard us, went out again.” No longer inhibited by years of self-imposed modesty, I didn’t bother covering myself when I left Lorenzo’s bed and walked into the lounge area. There on the dining table was a note from Margo that I quickly read.

Jonathan from Iowa, hardly a match made i
n heaven but neither was the mama’s boy or the nonagenarian. Bernardo, not even a one-night stand, more like a fantabulous sneeze, Margo would’ve said.

I wrapped the table runner around me and padded out to
the balcony in time to see her running down the street while pulling her overnighter, its wheels bumping and wobbling over the cobblestones.

“Margo,
” I called out but she didn’t hear me.

By then Lorenzo was standing beh
ind me, Margo’s note crumpled in his hand. “What happened to the taxi?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

With that, he hurried back inside, grabbed his phone and made two calls, the first to Fonso and the second to Dante Novaro. Although Lorenzo spoke in Italian so fast the words melded into one long, indiscernible string, their meaning I had no problem grasping. Margo was heading for trouble, if trouble hadn’t already found her.

It became
a race as to who got dressed first and Lorenzo won, but only because my hands were shaking so hard I’d put on my top backwards.

“Please, Elena, it would be better for you to stay here,” Lorenzo said.

“And do what? This is my sister you’re talking about, and I have no intentions cowering in the corner while … while … damn, I don’t even know what’s going on.”

With that I started to cry, more out of fear
for Margo than any frustration I now felt.

“We do not
have time for tears,” Lorenzo said. He gave me the pristine handkerchief from his pocket, shoved my purse into my chest, and pulled me out the door. I don’t even remember going down the stairs but as soon as we walked into the bright sunshine, I reached for my sunglasses and stepped into the backseat of a waiting police car that Nicco Ricci was driving. He activated that eerie siren, stepped on the gas, and we headed down the street.

“Wait!” I yelled. “What about Lorenzo?”

“We’ll meet up with him later. In the meantime please buckle up, shut up, and allow me concentrate on doing my job while Lorenzo does his.”

Chapter 31

Scream like a Banshee

I could not believe the idiot driver had the nerve to take off without me. When I first got into this same taxi at Jonathan’s hotel, he told the driver to wait for me. When I got out at Lorenzo’s, I told the driver to wait for me. Both times said driver nodded to the affirmative. So what did the driver do? He must’ve gotten a hair up his ass while I was dragging my suitcase down the stairs because when I stepped outside all I could see was the taxi’s rear end cruising down the street. I ran as fast as I could, yelled as loud as I could, but did my efforts make one iota of difference. No.

What the hell,
I gave up the chase, banged the suitcase handle into its chamber, and sat on the upturned end to catch my breath, again. For the second time in ten minutes, damn, this was so un-Margo. Good thing Jonathan had given me his cell number. Having opened my cheap phone, I pressed talk and when he answered, I wasted no time explaining my situation. While he was scrambling to come up with a solution, it became a moot point.

“Hold on,” I said. “You won’t believe this but another taxi just pulled up.”

“Wait, Margo, maybe you should—”

“
Too late, Jonathan, you are so not backing out of this.”

“That’s not what I mean
t. Don’t—”

“
Keep that thought for a few more minutes. The driver’s got my suitcase and I’ll see you in a jiff.”

I climbed into the backseat
of this taxi-to-the-rescue, only then realizing I’d be sharing it with another passenger, a tourist on her own. Good for her and those dark sunglasses, but me first. I had a train to catch.

“Scuzi,”
I said to the driver,
“stazione ferroviaria e la fretta.”

“
Si, si,”
he replied.

Wow, that was easier than expected
. What’s more, my backseat mate didn’t seem to mind. She smiled but said not a word. Okay, by me, mindless chitchat with dumpy women, not my cup of tea or morning grappa, depending on the location and situation. On this day and at this hour in Monterosso, I’d have done whatever it took—sing songs, tell jokes, part with a few euros, anything to get me to the train on time. Traveling by auto through any centuries-old street meant for pedestrians could be a bitchy nightmare but unlike some cabbies this one never lost his cool and when he turned onto a side street, I buckled up, allowed myself to sit back and relax, knowing this minor glitch in my day would soon be history.

Jonathan,
who would’ve thought how quickly we had connected, especially with so little in common other than age-within-range and Midwest background combined with don’t-mind-my-funkier-than-your attitude. Attitude, yes, that pretty well summed up our common ingredient, one I could live with, at least for the remainder of my Italian holiday. I was riding high with anticipation of the Italian Riviera adventure when this strange sensation hit me. No more pedestrians, as in where the hell did everybody go.

Having released my seatbelt, I
leaned forward, tapped one forefinger on the driver’s shoulder, and in a voice wavering between anger and desperation, I said, “
Scusi, stazione treno.
Now!”

Without turning around or speaking to the rearview mirror, he spoke in English I had no problem understanding.
“No, Signorina Margo Savino. You will not be going to the train station. Not now, not ever.”

“In that case, let me out.”
I reached for the handle, but before I could open the door, its lock clicked shut. Leaving the tourist area gave the driver an excuse to step on the petro and me a bounce back to the seat. I looked to Dumpy Woman for support. Instead she tore off her sunglasses. One brown eye and one blue, all I could think was El’s Gypsy with the Evil Eye and me without an amulet. Now what was that gesture? Whatever, I gave her the good old American Bird instead. She expelled a high-pitched cackle reminiscent of a Disney animated feature. Except this was no PG-rated movie, not even an NC-R, Adults only. Most definitely, this was reality at its worse and not at all suitable for me. My first reaction and the most obvious was to get the hell out as fast as possible. But dammit, the back door still wouldn’t open. However, a tiny crack in my brain did, reminding me this driver must’ve been El’s second gypsy. Two against one, damn. And when I saw Dumpy produce the dreaded knife, I did what any All-American, barely-trained-in-martial-arts female would’ve done. I pressed talk on my phone.

B
oy oh boy, did I ever scream, loud and clear. No way was I leaving Planet Earth without a fight like none I’d fought before. Dumpy lunged toward me. Using my Florentine handbag as a shield, I heard the sickening sound of pricey leather ripping. Better the skin of a dead animal than any form of mine. I shoved back, along with a banshee scream that caused Driver to swerve, and me to fall on top of Dumpy. Jonathan was yelling from his end of the line, just the incentive I needed to use my phone to bop Dumpy in one crossed eye. Her foot shot up, kicking Driver in the back of his head. He swerved again, this time losing control of the taxi while I careened back and forth with Dumpy, playing this deadly game of Who’s on Top and Who’s Got the Knife. Except the knife never left her hand, not even when the taxi came to a crashing halt, its horn blasting away with one continuous wail, so effing eerie the damn thing gave me the worse headache of my entire life. Or maybe my death, minor details not worth arguing over if I had made my final exit from Planet Earth.