Pasta Imperfect (29 page)

I blushed at the suggestion and felt my neck grow warm as a few scattered claps erupted into a round of enthusiastic applause. Oh, wow. I smiled, and bowed, and curtsied, and blushed some more. This was just like being onstage. Only this was a lot better because I wouldn’t have to wake up to any bad reviews in the morning paper.

“Tell us how you figured everything out,” Dick Teig urged when the applause died down. I heard a little
whir
as Osmond adjusted the zoom lens on his camcorder.

“You really want to hear all that?” I asked.

“Speech!” yelled Dick Stolee.

“Speech!” yelled Alice Tjarks.

I gave my shoulders a humble shrug. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Um, I first started to become suspicious —”

“The word’s just in from the surveillance tapes,” Duncan interrupted as he came up behind me. He listened intently to the person on the other end of the line, then uttered a few words of Italian into the phone and held it away from his ear before announcing, “Jeannette Bowles wasn’t pushed from the top of the Duomo.”

Murmurs. Muttering. Gasps.

“The tape shows that she was backed against the gallery railing, shooting a picture of something above her head. Those of you who climbed to the top know it can be pretty windy up there, and the weather conditions proved fatal for Jeannette.”

The wind blew her off? Oh, man, there should be signs warning about that.

“Some of you may have noticed that she was wearing a scarf around her neck two days ago. The video shows a wind gust ripping the scarf from her throat and carrying it over the rail. When she spun around to catch it, she found herself immobilized because the back of her dress was snagged on the railing. But she lunged for the scarf anyway and was too off-balance to stop herself when she leaned too far over. It all happened in a matter of seconds. She didn’t even have time to scream.”

My breath caught in my throat. Jeannette Bowles died not because Gabriel Fox pushed her but because she was wearing my coral sweaterdress with the decorative shoulder strap? Oh, my God! Would she still be alive if my dress had been constructed from polyester instead of the more snag-prone cotton knit? Could I be charged with negligent homicide because I’d exercised my preference for breathable fabrics?

“Are you saying Gabriel Fox didn’t have anything to do with that Bowles woman’s death?” Dick Teig asked.

Duncan shook his head. “He was nowhere around her when she fell.”

Dick turned to Osmond. “Don’t erase that tape. If Fox decides to sue Emily’s ass for slander, you could make a bundle.”

“Wouldn’t that be more defamation of character?” Helen asked.

“No, no,” Lucille corrected. “It would be a clear case of libel.”

“But Gabriel Fox
has
to be the killer,” I blubbered. “He had the opportunity. He had the motive!”

“Didn’t no one try to help that woman unsnag her dress?” Nana asked.

Duncan shook his head. “She was all alone in that section of the gallery for several minutes while people attended to the man who was suffering from heat exhaustion. A man in a safari hat.”

Safari hat?
All eyes flew to Fred, who suddenly looked as if he’d like to disappear through a hole in the floor.

“It wasn’t heat exhaustion,” he said grudgingly. “It was a panic attack. And it was all their fault!” He stabbed his finger at Brandy Ann and Amanda. “I told them I didn’t like heights. I told them I’d do better visiting museums, but nooo, they had to climb to the highest point in the whole damn city!”

“Hey, you didn’t have to come with us!” Amanda yelled.

“And then what would I have done? Wandered around Florence all by myself? What fun is that? I’m always by myself!” He dropped his head to stare self-consciously at the floor. “I…I kinda liked being part of a group.”

Poor Fred. A victim of peer pressure even at his age.

“What about Sylvia?” Keely called out. “Was Gabriel Fox anywhere around her when she fell down the stairs?”

Duncan waved his phone in the air. “He was on a train to Rome when she fell. And according to the autopsy results, Sylvia Root’s blood alcohol level was soaring at the time of her death, so that, combined with the condition of the stairs and the fact that her foot was caught in the hem of her pants, paints a rather accurate picture of the incident. The police will be filing no criminal action in the case. It’s been ruled an accident.”

“She got so pickled at the restaurant last night, I don’t see how she made it
up
the stairs in the first place!” Lucille Rassmuson charged.

“But she wasn’t a mean drunk,” Grace Stolee admitted. “She told some funny stories at dinner. At least, I think they were funny. She was slurring her words so badly, I couldn’t catch some of the punch lines.”

“Sylvia was drunk last night?” I exclaimed.

“Stinking drunk,” Dick Teig called out.

I heaved an agitated sigh. You’d think maybe someone could have
mentioned
that to me?

Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup.

Suppressing a scream, I snatched my phone from my bag. “What?”

A crackle, followed by a surprised, “Emily?”

“Ohhh, hi, sweetie.” I regarded the multitude of unblinking eyes staring back at me. “Um, this isn’t really a good time for me.” I angled away from the crowd.

“I won’t keep you, darling. I’m on the train headed for —
KRRRRKKK.
I thought I’d —
KRRRKKK.
”

“Etienne?” I sighed my frustration. “Hello?”

Behind me, I heard a loud crack of bubble gum followed by Keely’s voice. “So let me get this straight. Gabriel Fox didn’t kill anyone. None of us were in danger of being murdered by him. Sylvia Root died because she was drunk, and Jeannette Bowles died because she was klutzy. What about the first woman who died? Cassandra.”

“That was ruled an accident from the beginning,” Duncan said.

“So Emily’s theory was a bunch of crap?” Keely asked.

“Emily’s theory was well thought out,” Duncan replied, “but I suspect, in this case, she was wrong.”

I spun around and gave him a frustrated look. Well, maybe my theory wouldn’t have been so wrong if I’d had all the information! “Etienne?” I said into the phone, turning away again.

“…teasing about having money left to buy a train ticket,” I heard him say.

“Did you end up losing all your money at the casino?” I asked, wondering if Switzerland might have an organization that was the equivalent of Gamblers Anonymous. “No, no. My luck held. I told you, darling, at the gaming table, I can’t seem to lose.”

“Did you win enough to buy a plane ticket to Iowa?”

“More than enough. How does seven hundred thousand sound to you?”

Delete three zeroes. Divide by two.
“Three hundred fifty dollars? I don’t know if that’ll get you all the way to Iowa, but it might if you try Priceline dot com. You can get some real bargains with them.”

“Not lire, darling. I did the conversion for you. Seven hundred thousand American dollars.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

A female voice whined loudly behind me. “So if all these deaths were really just accidents, do you think we’re safe to continue the tour?”

“That would be my recommendation,” Duncan replied. “Marla and Gillian will rejoin us tomorrow, then the rest of Italy awaits. I’d hate to say good-bye to all of you before I had a chance to finish what I started.” He brushed lightly against my back, sending a jolt of electricity up my spine.

“Seven hundred thousand
dollars
?” I sputtered into the phone.

Etienne laughed in his beautiful French/German/Italian accent. “That’s why I —
KKRRRKK.
”

I sprinted toward the front desk to see if the reception was any better over there. “Etienne? Can you hear me?”

“We’ll be checking out tomorrow at ten o’clock,” Duncan announced, as people unfolded their limbs and eased to their feet, “so be down here in the lobby ready to board the bus by 9:50. The memorial service that Philip Blackmore arranged for Sylvia will be held at eight o’clock tomorrow morning in one of the minor chapels of the Duomo, so those of you who’d like to pay your respects to all our recently departed guests can do so then.”

I clutched the phone in my hands and strangled it. “Can you hear me now?” I screamed at it.

Guests wandered past me, giving me odd looks as they made their way back to their rooms. I saw several people in the Iowa contingent congratulate Jackie, then a group of them headed out the front door. I pressed the phone to my ear again, relieved when I heard the faint tones of Etienne’s voice coming through the line.

“…birthday gathering jogged my memory and reminded me what I should have asked you in Ireland last month. I don’t know how I —
KKRRRK
— as important as this, but I need to know, darling. Will you —
KRRRRRRKKKKK!”

“Yes!” I shouted into the phone. “I will! Whatever you’re asking me! The answer is yes!”

KRRRRRRRKKKKK!

“Damn!” I screamed. I squeezed the phone. I punched buttons. I shook it in my fist. I pressed it to my ear again.

KRRRRRRRKKKKK!

“Bad connection?” asked Duncan, sauntering over to me.

“He’s on a train,” I said, refusing to give up. “Maybe he’s going through a tunnel or something.”

He leaned casually against the front desk, regarding me with his dark eyes. “If he’s on his way back to Lucerne, he’s a fool.”

“He’s Swiss. He’s very efficient and…and duty-bound.” But no matter what he was, he wasn’t on the other end of the phone line anymore. I stuffed the phone back into my bag. “He’ll call back,” I said cheerily, hiding my disappointment.

The corners of Duncan’s mouth lifted imperceptibly. “Ofcourse he will. In the meantime, how about having a drink with me?”

I was a woman who loved men in all their various sizes, shapes, and incarnations, but at the moment, Duncan Lazarus was not the man I wanted to be around. “Thanks for the offer, but I really should start throwing things back into my suitcase.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “That’s right. I’ve seen the size of your suitcase. You probably should have started yesterday. I don’t suppose you need any help? I’m a natural at organizing, folding and…filling empty spaces.”

I narrowed one eye at him. “It seems you’re a natural at just about everything.”

“Not everything. Apparently I need to work on my technique for convincing beautiful women that I’m a good catch. You suppose my antenna is defective? I always seem to fall for the ones who are taken. But like I said before, we still have a lot of days left on this tour. I’m not prepared to give up quite yet.”

Oh, God. Why me? I scanned the now empty lobby, shaking my head in disbelief and thinking that I could actually feel egg dripping from my face. “I can’t believe how off base I was about everything.”

“You had at least one thing right. Gabriel Fox didn’t want romances shoved down his throat anymore. That’s why he ditched us in Pisa. He told the Rome police he refused to demean himself by returning to Florence to judge Philip Blackmore’s imbecilic contest. And he implied he’d rather chew razor blades than spend more time with that, and I quote, ‘crazed flock of wannabe writers,’ unquote. So he decided to fly back to the States instead.”

“Can he be charged with anything?”

“He’s guilty of chickening out, which isn’t a crime. It’s a personality flaw, not even prosecutable in Italy.” He bent his head and said in a whisper so close to my ear, I could feel his breath, “It’s a common frailty among people who aren’t from Iowa.”

I
returned to my room, wondering if anyone would miss me if I flew home, too. I mean, with the way this trip was going, I doubted I’d miss myself! I’d maligned Gabriel Fox to the point where he could sue me. I’d sent Nana on a wild-goose chase over the Internet when she could have been canoodling. I’d wasted an entire day tailing people when I could have been shopping. I’d prompted Jackie to parade around as a poorly dressed transvestite stalker. I’d labeled every accident a capital crime and ended up looking like the tour escort who’d cried wolf. And I didn’t even want to get started on my love life. I was having “connection interruptus” with the man I wanted and “connection overloadus” with the man I didn’t. AARGH! Maybe I could just lock myself in the bathroom and turn on the shower. That could put a quick end to my misery.

I walked to the bathroom and inspected the folding door. The lock was broken, so it wouldn’t stay shut. Great. With my luck the water would all leak out before I could drown myself, and I’d end up having to pay for flood damage.

Wallowing in self-pity, I grabbed my suitcase and swung it onto the bed, then plopped down beside it, burying my face in the crook of my elbow. Maybe I should have taken Duncan up on his offer. I could use a drink. I could use a lot of drinks. But I knew that kind of remedy wouldn’t work. I was too hard-core Midwestern to resort to drowning my sorrows in a bottle. I needed to look for a silver lining rather than drink myself into oblivion. Philip Blackmore had tried that, and look where it had gotten him.

Giving myself an invisible slap upside the head, I forced myself to a sitting position and took mental stock of the situation. Okay, I might have ended up with egg all over my face, but the good news was, there was no killer on the tour. Duh! How could I feel bad about that? The deaths had all been accidental, so if people started watching out where they stepped, maybe we could continue the rest of the tour without incident.

I felt a sudden release of tension in my muscles.

As for being sued, if no one told Gabriel Fox about what I’d said, he’d have no reason to sue me, right? I pondered that. No one would tell him, would they? Gillian and Marla hadn’t heard my accusation, and Jackie surely wouldn’t rat on me. So what were the chances that anyone else on this tour would ever have contact with him again? Slim to none, I’d guess.

A hint of a smile pulled at the corners of my mouth.

As for the other stuff, Nana always enjoyed surfing the Internet, Jackie loved playing dress-up, I still had loads of time to shop, and Etienne — My brain executed a mental somersault. Oh, my God! Etienne was rich! What had he said? Seven hundred thousand American dollars? Why, that was — I added three zeroes and multplied by two — that was like 1.4
billion
lire! Wow!