Pasta Imperfect (20 page)

“PSSSST!”

From the corner of my eye I could see the man making a furious motion with his entire hand. Unh-oh. He’d progressed from a single finger to the whole hand. I wondered if that was the gesture for group sex. God, these Italians were kinky. I angled my face away from him and broke out in a shuffling run to catch up with the group.

“Emily! Will you get
over
here?”

The voice stopped me in midshuffle. I turned around to regard the man in the slouch cap. “Jackie?”

“What? You don’t understand hand gestures anymore?” She ate up the distance between us in a few long strides.

I gaped at her. Him. “We’re in Italy. I thought you were motioning that you wanted to have sex with me.”

She flexed her fingers and raised them to eye level. “Mmm, I think you use the fingers on your left hand to indicate you want to have sex. You want me to check my nonverbal Italian book?”

I looked him…her…him…up and down. “Why are you dressed like that?”

She whipped off her sunglasses to reveal a face devoid of makeup. “I’m undercover,” she said in a low voice. “I think I can keep better tabs on our suspects if I’m in disguise. And besides, costumes are more fun. It’s like being onstage.” She struck a pose. “What do you think? Good disguise? You think anyone will catch on?”

“Oh, yeah. Great disguise.” She’d gone from six-foot transsexual to six-foot transvestite. The only ones unable to catch on would be infants and blind people. “The sandals are a nice touch. Very…flat.”

She tapped a finger to her temple. “That took a lot of planning. I even had to remember to remove my nail polish because, let me tell you, if you’re a guy with painted toenails? You draw a
lot
of attention. So tell me. Who do you want me to tail?”

We lagged behind the group as I repeated Etienne’s earlier phone conversation. “So that’s the scoop,” I said when I finished. “And I’m finding it very telling that Brandy Ann and Amanda both have the same failing in common.”

“Euw. Did they let you read their contest stuff? Let me guess. They split their infinitives? Use double negatives?”

“Jack! We’re looking for a motive for murder!”

She waited a beat. “Too much passive voice?”

“Money problems, Jack! They have serious money problems and need that ten-thousand-dollar cash advance. Keely could use the money, too, but she’s banking more on the prestige that being a published author will give her. Even if she never published another thing, the words ‘published author’ in her bio would help her online consulting service take off like gangbusters. It all boils down to greed. Plain, simple greed.”

Jackie sighed. “So who do you want me to follow? And you better tell me quick so I can catch up. Everyone just filed into that circular building over there. What is that anyway? Another baptistry?”

“The largest one in Italy. With the best acoustics in the world.”

In the next moment I heard double screams so loud and bloodcurdling that they electrified every hair at the back of my neck. The sounds rang out…ricocheted…vibrated…then blended into a chorus of notes that lingered in the air, leaving an almost musical contrail behind.

Wow. I’d never heard such incredibly symphonic screams before.

We riveted our attention on the baptistry. Jackie stared down at me in exasperation. “Let me guess. Seeing that our whole group is inside there, I suppose you’re gonna want to check it out. Right?”

W
e raced down the path, bounded up the three stone steps of the baptistry, and flew through a door that was only slightly less tall than the space shuttle.
“Biglietti?”
a uniformed ticket-taker inquired as we entered the short foyer.
“BIGLIETTI! BIGLIETTI!”
she screamed after us as we tore past.

The interior of the building was a vast empty space encased in stone. I saw no frescoes, no statues, no chairs, no nothing. What I did see were people frozen in place, staring in shocked silence at the two women who were standing by the spa-sized baptismal font in the center of the room, swinging their damson leather shoulder bags at each other.

“You bitch!” screamed Marla. “I should have known you’d buy something just like mine! You can’t
stand
not to copy me! First, it’s my books. Now it’s my shoulder bag!” WHAM! She connected with Gillian’s thigh.

Looked like the divas had finally run into each other.

“Copy you? COPY YOU!” THWWWWACK! Gillian delivered a blow to Marla’s shoulder, driving her back. “The only similarity between your books and mine are the punctuation marks!”

“You used my first love scene in
Barbarian’s Bride
almost word for word in your stupid cowboy island book!”

I sincerely hoped the cowboy had been more fortunate than George and escaped the encounter with his front teeth intact.

“You’re accusing me of plagiarism?” Gillian shrieked. “Honey, if I’m going to commit plagiarism, I can do a whole hell of a lot better than stealing scenes from some unpolished, unprofessional, unimaginative hack like you!”

“I have half a mind to sue your
ass
off!” Marla raged, her voice mimicking the tonal brilliance of a really good sound system.

“That’s exactly why you can’t write!” Gillian’s voice echoed in surround sound. “You only
have
half a mind!”

SWOOSH swoosh swoosh! They swung their pocketbooks over their heads. WHUMP! The bags thumped together in midair like boxing gloves.

“Ladies.” Elbowing his way through the crush of paralyzed onlookers, Duncan reached the center of the room and inserted his commanding presence between the divas and their dueling shoulder bags. “Enough.”

The women dangled their bags by their shoulder straps, looking as if they were contemplating sneak attacks. Oh, God.

“Protect your boys, son!” Dick Teig warned. “You might want to have children someday.”

“Copycat!” yelled Marla.

“Drudge!” Gillian spat.

“Lickspittle!”

“Muckmouth!”

As the screaming continued, I listened to the demeaning barrage of insults reverberating off these sacred walls, feeling shock and awe at what I was hearing from the world’s two most famous romance divas.

Boy, Giovanna was right. The acoustics in this place
were
incredible. They sounded even better on the inside than they did from the outside!

Forty-five minutes later, with the divas banished to opposite ends of the group, Duncan’s manhood intact, and Giovanna’s tour ended, I sat cross-legged on the grass outside the baptistry, wishing I knew yoga and trying to regroup.

“Mind if I join you?” Gabriel Fox sauntered in my direction and when I gave him a nod, he stretched out on the lawn in front of me. “After what you’ve witnessed these last two days, you mustn’t think much of the people who work in publishing. But I’d like you to know, we’re not all like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones. We’re not all raving lunatics. Most of us actually enjoy working with each other the majority of time, but competition seems to bring out the worst in some people.”

“I noticed.”

“In Gillian’s and Marla’s case, it’s because of the Irmas.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Irma Award. The highest honor you can receive in the romance industry. They both have nine at the moment, and they’re vying to be the first to reach ten, at which point they’ll be retired from competition and be inducted into the Romance Hall of Fame. But look at what they’ve become. The stress is eating them up. And this tour has pushed them over the edge. Philip was crazy to expect them to give up their writing secrets to the masses. You heard them yesterday. They don’t want new authors to come along and knock them off their million-dollar pedestals. Each wants to be top dog forever.”

I smoothed my hand over the grass, looking him square in the eye. “They must be relieved they don’t have to worry about Cassandra and Jeannette then.”

“We never should have begun this contest. But Philip —” Gabriel wagged his hand in frustration. “You can’t talk to Philip sometimes. Everything has to go his way, or no way at all.”

“You were one of the last people to see Jeannette alive,” I prodded. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what happened. It became open season on Gabriel Fox! I haven’t been able to take a breath these last two days without some contest hopeful getting in my face. ‘Pick me. Pick me!’ They’ve even followed me into the restroom, for Christ’s sake.”

I wondered if he realized that was no big deal since most of the restrooms around here were unisex.

“Jeannette practically attacked me in the
piazza
yesterday, and when I excused myself to do some sightseeing, she decided to tag along with me. I thought I might shake her by threatening to climb to the top of the Duomo — I mean, that dress of hers was so tight, I didn’t think there was any way she could climb stairs, but wouldn’t you know? She was a hiker. She could have made that climb in a straitjacket and leg irons. And to add to the occasion, some mouthy redhead joined us. The two of them talked at me so much, I think I’ve gone deaf in both ears.”

“From your little speech on the bus this morning, it sounded to me as if you were quite taken with Jeannette.”

“Hell. Give me credit for having some scruples. The woman died. I’m not about to announce she was a bootlicker. No matter what she was, I still have to do the good PR.”

“So where were you when she died?”

He eyed me critically. “You ask that question as if you suspect I might have killed her. Just to ease your mind, I was nowhere around the woman when she died, and I told the same thing to the police. I wandered away while she and the redhead were locked in some kind of discussion about first-chapter endings, and I headed for the stairs at a run.”

I guess that clinched it.
Everyone
had been descending the stairs when Jeannette died. How convenient.

No, wait a minute. I suddenly remembered. Everyone except Fred. I still didn’t know where Fred had been…or what he’d seen.

“I might be a literary snob,” Gabriel confessed, “but I’m not a killer. Frankly, I think it might have been suicide. She’d been involved in some kind of lawsuit years ago, and from what she hinted, the result hadn’t gone well for her.”

“Did she say what kind of lawsuit?”

“Believe it or not, that was the one thing about herself that she didn’t elaborate on. Lucky me.” He boosted himself to his feet and brushed off his khakis. “Don’t look too hard for your phantom killer, Emily. I don’t think you’ll find one. On the other hand, should
I
show up dead, be sure and check out Sylvia’s alibi.”

I squinted up at him, blocking out the sun with my hand. “She doesn’t like you much, does she?”

“Major understatement. She hates the ground I walk on.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’d like to say because I’m literary, and she’s commercial, but I think it goes deeper than that. Sylvia Root has been uncivil to me since the first time we met. And to be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea why. But I never let it ruin my day. I can handle the Sylvias of the world.”

I bet he could.

Jackie showed up five minutes later, awaiting last-minute instructions, which I was happy to supply. “Something’s been up with Fred ever since he learned about the security cameras at the top of the Duomo. Something not quite right. So maybe you can follow him around and see if he does anything out of character.”

“You mean, like walk with erect posture and look people in the eye? You suppose I should just ask him?”

I stared at her, deadpan. “You’re not supposed to
talk
to him, Jack. You’re supposed to
watch
him. He’s not supposed to see you. No talking, just watching. Got it?”

She removed her tape recorder from the pocket of her shirt and said into the mike, “If you want to have fun on your holiday tour, AVOID THE ONE ESCORTED BY EMILY!”

I flashed her my most winning smile. “If you say one more word into that freaking tape recorder, I’ll snap it in half.”

Arching her eyebrows in a fit of pique, she shoved the gadget back into her pocket. “Have you by any chance been diagnosed with PMS recently?”

I continued with the plan. “I’ll follow Brandy Ann, Amanda, and Keely. If I’m lucky, they might hit some of the same stores.”

“What if they don’t like to shop?”

A woman not like to shop?
“You’re kidding, right? Okay, you take off, and I’ll meet you back at the bus at four.” As she struck out along the path, I recalled Etienne’s last enigmatic words to me. “Hey, wait a minute! Do you have any idea what
voray mange calzione
means?”

“I don’t know French!” she called, backpedaling.

“It’s not French! It’s Italian!”

She erupted in hysterical laughter. “Sure it is! Jeez, you need language lessons. Okay, I think it means…” She paused in thought. “Someone wants to eat your shorts! Or maybe your socks.”

My socks? I hadn’t brought any socks with me. But I certainly didn’t want to discourage his attempts at fore-play.

I wondered how he’d feel about panty hose.

I loved tailing people.

I loved it because it was so easy. Especially when I was tailing women who indeed liked visiting all the local shops.

I followed Brandy Ann and Amanda down a wide street called the Via Santa Maria, and while they popped into linen shops, alabaster and marble shops, stationery shops, jewelry shops, clothing shops, shoe shops, and leather shops, I watched them from a safe distance on the opposite side of the street. They developed a pattern of spending an average of thirty minutes in each store, then moving on to the next one, except for the jewelry store, where they spent an hour and a half. I figured Amanda was probably looking for attractive new jewelry for her nostrils. Maybe a miniature Tower of Pisa. Or a small cathedral.

I bought gelato at every ice-cream place I passed and stood nibbling on it as I watched my marks. I decided my favorite flavor was
frutti di bosco,
and maybe not so much for the flavor as for the color, which was a deep raspberry/boysenberry pink. I remembered having an Easter dress that color once, when I was five.