The Da Vinci Cook (15 page)

He started. “Thanks, I mean,
grazie
.”

She skidded to a stop, and with a big smile replied in English, “You’re welcome. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He seemed uneasy for a moment, then relaxed and pleasantly smiled back. “It’s okay.” His accent was pure American.

She went to Bruno to find out what the two men’s meals were, and offered to help serve—strozzapretti with sausage and a red sauce for the younger, and spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, and pepper for the older. She brought them out, approaching slowly as she eavesdropped on their conversation.

It set off all kinds of alarm bells. They were discussing some sort of archeological dig. Her mind raced: Archeology. Ancient Christian relic. It fit.

She needed to hear more.

The younger man caught her eye as she placed his dish in front of him. He gave her an appreciative assessment, and she did the same to him. When need be, she could flirt with the best of them.

A short while later she returned with some bottled water, once again hovering near as long as she dared. Her Italian wasn’t great, but it sounded as if they were talking about some pottery and mosaics from the time of Augustus Caesar. She opened the bottle and served the water with more ogling interest from the young man.

“Molto grazie
,” he said, and asked if she was a new employee.

Angie answered that she’d just started that day, and immediately he proclaimed, “
Americana!
”

She guessed her pronunciation wasn’t as authentic as she thought. “My name’s Angelina,” she said. “Angelina Amalfi.”

“We are Stefano,” the younger man touched his heart, then gestured toward the elder, “and Umberto Falcone.”

At her inquiry as to whether they were tourists or worked in the area, Stefano explained that they were archeologists, father and son. As she oohed and aahed with interest, he preened like a peacock. Umberto cast daggers at both of them as he shoveled down his dinner. Stefano ignored the looks, explaining that they worked for the Vatican and were involved in excavations at the Forum, right near the Mamertine Prison.

“Oh, that is sooo interesting!” Angie gushed. “What fascinating work it must be.”

“Well . . . it’s a job,” he said with obviously false modesty.

“No, you have to know a whole lot to do that kind of work!” She held her hands up and clenched together like she’d seen teenage fans of boy pop singers do. She hoped she looked sufficiently awe-stricken. “Is there still much left to find? I would have thought it had been all dug up by now.”

“We go very deep,” Stefano boasted. “We’re finding things from the time of Christ.”

“How incredible.” Angie batted her lashes. “Tell me, do you ever find religious relics?”

Just then two policemen walked into the restaurant. They stood near the doorway and perused the diners.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled. Head down, she pretended she was inspecting the floor for stray crumbs and scurried into the kitchen. She had no idea if the cops were there to eat or for more work-related reasons—like arresting her and Cat—but she wasn’t about to hang around to find out. Paavo had warned her that Lieutenant Eastwood wanted to send the police after them. While Paavo didn’t believe Eastwood could pull it off, if he did, he’d know that a good place to try to look for them would be Marcello’s restaurant.

Hiding behind the door, she watched them.

“Go take care of the customers!” Bruno ordered.

“I feel sick,” she said. “You go.”

Mouth wrinkled, he eyed the police a moment before deciding, “The customers are fine.”

Fortunately for those customers, the cops were there less than five minutes.

Not long after that, the dinner crowd began to dwindle, and the archeologists had gone without ever answering her question. Angie sank into a chair, exhausted from peeling tomatoes, busing dishes for Cosimo, and waiting on tables with Bruno.

When she caught her breath enough to look around, she was surprised that Cat hadn’t appeared. She must have still been working with the pasta machine. Angie knew it could be difficult, but she’d thought Cat would have mastered the thing by now.

She stepped into the back nook to see what was going on.

Cat sat on a stool, legs crossed, a goblet of red wine at her side. Short bits of fettuccine that had failed were sprinkled on the table and the floor.

Cosimo was literally jumping from one end of the pasta machine to the other as fettuccine oozed out. He was covered head to toe with flour, sweating profusely, and his toupee had slipped to one side. Little tufts of powder billowed up from the floor whenever he stepped on a good-sized spill.

On the table, sheets of pasta looked as dry as ancient parchment, and several balls of dough were all but mummified.

Only a few minuscule mounds of perfectly shaped fettuccine lay on a towel.

“Cat! What’s going on?”

She took a sip of her wine and heaved a sigh before answering. “Cosimo isn’t very good at this, I’m afraid.”

Chapter 19

“No one knows exactly when Peter first came to Rome, but it was probably around 42 A.D.,” Maria Amalfi Klee said to the homicide inspectors who had gathered close to listen to her story. “When Paul wrote his letter to the Romans in 57 A.D., he was addressing a large community. It can only have grown that way because Peter was there teaching.” Her eyes were large and shining as she relayed this information. She faced Paavo. “Don’t you agree?”

“Sure.” He wasn’t about to argue. He should have known he couldn’t spend the entire afternoon without another Amalfi trying to help him do his job. Maria was Angie’s third sister—the one so religious she once wanted to become a nun.

The other detectives curiously studied Maria as she sat at his desk and addressed them all. She may have been the most purely beautiful of all the sisters. Her jet black hair reached her waist. She often wore it in a single braid, but today it hung loose and straight. Her eyes were almost black, her skin a flawless olive shade, and she used no makeup except for lipstick and a little blush. While Angie’s sister Frannie looked anorexic, Angie and Cat worked to keep their weight down, and Bianca had surrendered the battle altogether, to a man’s eye Maria’s build was perfect. Lush and curvaceous, she played up her exotic looks in her clothes and jewelry, which usually had an East Indian motif. She favored beaded tunics, lots of bangles, and intricate, ethnic-looking necklaces.

The only problem was that she usually wore an expression she probably considered a combination of piety and otherworldliness, but reminded Paavo of someone sucking on a sour ball. She wore it now as she responded to Paavo’s questions about the chain with a discourse on the life of St. Peter.

“The basilica called St. Peter in Chains stands at the summit of one of the Esquiline Hill’s three peaks,” she continued. “The palace of justice, the Praefecura Urbis, was on that spot, and nearby stood the Templum Telluris where Christians were imprisoned and sentenced to death.” She made a quick sign of the cross. “It is very likely Peter was among the prisoners there.”

“And that’s where the chain was from?” Paavo asked, a little impatient with the sermon.

“You’re getting ahead of my story.” Maria cast him a reproachful look. “There’s also a legend that has to do with the Mamertine Prison in the Forum. It was a damp, dark prison, and water soaked up through the floor. It is said that when Peter was in that prison, he used the water to baptize two guards. The guards freed Peter and told him to run. Since the Church venerates the guards as the martyrs Processus and Martinianus, you can imagine what happened after it was discovered that Peter was gone.”

A chill rippled down Paavo’s back. “Yes, I can,” he said quietly.

Maria continued, nodding. “As Peter was hurrying to leave the city, via the Appian Way, he managed to somehow remove his chains. A woman gathered them up and hid them in her house, and that’s how they came to be saved. Peter, however, didn’t leave Rome that day. As he reached the Via Ardeatina, he saw Christ walking toward him. He said,
‘Domine, quo vadis?’
—‘Lord, where are you going?’ Jesus told him he was going to Rome to be crucified again. Peter said he would follow him there, but then Jesus disappeared.” Maria’s voice turned very soft. “At that moment, Peter knew he had to return to Rome, and that he would be the one who was crucified.”

Paavo knew this part of the story. “Peter returned and was captured again and martyred on Vatican Hill.”

Maria nodded. “The Roman historian Tacitus writes how Nero mingled with the people disguised as a chariot driver and raced in his private stadium, which was opened to the Roman public for the occasion. The audience mocked and scorned those who died. Some of them were covered with animal skins and were torn apart by dogs, or were hanged on crosses, or when the sun set they were burned alive to light up the night sky.”

Yosh visibly winced at the image.

Paavo felt disgust, and wondered what terrible thing it said about mankind that two millennia later people were still being killed and persecuted for their beliefs.

“The Roman chain that the woman saved was revered,” Maria said. “It was housed in an early church on the spot where Peter was held prisoner. Later, on that spot, the present basilica was erected, and the chains that had bound Peter in Jerusalem when the angel visited and set him free—it’s in the ‘Acts of the Apostles’—were also brought to Rome. That’s why the chain displayed at the altar today has two parts to it. The first has twenty-three rectangular links attached to a larger link for the neck; the second has eleven links, plus larger links for the wrists.”

“Is it possible,” Paavo inquired, “that more chains exist?”

Maria studied him closely. “Certainly it is. Peter was imprisoned several times. He came to Rome for a reason, suffered and died there. Relics or artifacts of the event are sacred. And in Rome”—her eyes seemed to darken—”they must remain.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re getting into the heart of the Roman Catholic faith—my faith—with these chains, Paavo,” Maria said. “I hope you realize and respect that.” She looked at her audience. “All of you. We see Peter as the first Pope, and all Popes who followed as successors to him. That’s why Peter is so important to us, and why chains that touched him would be looked on with absolute reverence. Their value would be incalculable.”

Paavo and Yosh exchanged glances.

“Now, it’s time to go,” she announced to Paavo.

“To go?” That was news to him.

“We need to finish this investigation so that my sisters can come home.”

Looking at Maria at that moment, Paavo could well imagine her in a wimple and robes. And ready to smack his knuckles with a ruler if he were so presumptuous as to not obey.

Angie and Cat were shooed from the restaurant as Bruno locked up. He insisted they leave, even though they offered to stay and make more pasta, scrub the floors, inventory the supplies—whatever he wanted. He was clearly suspicious of the offer, and wouldn’t agree to it.

The two women ended up out on the dark street.

This part of Rome was quiet at night. Many of the people here were visiting clerics who came to be near or to study at the Vatican. They were people who also tended to go to sleep at an early hour.

“Well, that sure worked well.” Cat’s voice dripped sarcasm. “They got a lot of work out of us, and we got exactly nothing. Good job, Angie.”

“As if you should complain! You sat and watched Cosimo work while I did his job!” Angie sniped. “But I did overhear two archeologists talking.”

“Archeologists in Rome,” Cat said with fake awe. “Whatever will they think of next?”

Both perturbed, they marched in silence toward their hotel when a car pulled up against the curb. Angie froze. Was it just someone who lived in the area, parking, or was it something more ominous? The streetlights were few and far between on this side street, and she couldn’t see inside the car to tell who was in it.

Her eyes met Cat’s. Both were unsure whether they should run or not—and if so, toward their hotel or back toward the restaurant?

Two car doors opened. A man got out of one side, a woman on the other. She lit into him, and he argued back. She headed down the street, and he ran after her. Before long they reached the corner, turned, and were out of sight.

“Whew!” Angie said. “I guess our nerves are a little shot.”

“Don’t say shot around me.” A chill came over Cat and she hugged her jacket tight against her. “Let’s hurry.”

The two sisters chortled in relief over their nervousness, and kept going.

Suddenly, from the shadows, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in front of them, the streetlight behind him. Angie gasped and started backpedaling. “Run, Cat!” she cried, reaching for her sister.

To her shock, Cat stood her ground. Hands on hips, she scowled. “Marcello! It’s about time!”

Angie blinked, and sidled next to her.

“What are you doing, Trina?” Marcello’s voice, a deep rumble, sounded both cross and worried, yet he looked at Cat as if he were starving and she was a feast. “Why are you here? Why are you and others asking for me at my hotel and restaurant?”