The Da Vinci Cook (17 page)

“Why?”

“They made nothing of themselves. She worked all her life to give them the best. After her husband died, her children were everything. Did they pay her back? Never! At least Marcello tried.”

Paavo watched her expression carefully. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Flora?”

Benedetta gave it careful thought. “She wasn’t a warm person, but dead? No, I don’t think so.”

After what felt like an eternity of walking in circles, Angie managed to locate the main street, Via Porta Cavalleggeri, and from there, Da Vinci’s.

She hurried down the back alley to Da Vinci’s rear entrance hoping Cat would be there waiting.

She wasn’t.

Angie knocked on the door. Maybe Cat had used the key and gone inside.

No one answered.

Despair settled over her, and she sat on the cement steps, heartsick, her head in her hands. Now what was she going to do? How was she going to tell Mamma that she’d lost Caterina? Or tell Charles, for that matter. One thing after the other had gone wrong, but nothing as bad as this, now—

“I can’t believe you’re just sitting there taking it easy!” It was Cat’s irritating voice, and Angie thought she had never heard anything so sweet.

“Where did you go?” Angie asked, jumping to her feet.

“I didn’t go anywhere. How could I run after Marcello in these Ferragamos? Look at how high the heel is, how pointy the toe? Don’t you know how much my feet hurt already? I’ve got blisters on my blisters. So, I sat down and waited by the Vatican wall, figuring it was safer there than in this alley. I expected you’d show up eventually. What took you so long? ”

“I couldn’t find my way back,” she admitted.

“It looks like you didn’t find Marcello either.”

“No, but I think I know the block he’s living on—if I can find it again.”

“There may be an easier way,” Cat said, holding up the key he’d given her. “Let’s see what we can turn up inside.”

Angie watched as Cat tried to get the key to work. “Why didn’t you ask him why Rocco was at his house?” Angie asked. “Or if he had any guesses as to who the dead man might be? Or if Rocco could be a killer? Or where Rocco is now?”

“Because it was clear he knew nothing about it.” Cat jiggled the key. The latch clicked, and she pushed the door open.

“I wonder if there’s a security alarm?” Angie looked around the walls for a control panel.

“I think Marcello would have mentioned it,” Cat said, sliding the dead bolt back into place. “But he’s not much into security. He put a system in his house only to sell it.”

“Good. I’d hate for the police to find us here,” Angie said with a shudder. “Let’s see what we can find.”

Careful to leave everything in place, they searched Bruno’s office. It had a locked safe. Other than that, they found Marcello’s name on some official documents and bills, but nowhere else. Leafing through an old Rolodex near the telephone, Angie found a number with a
P
beside it. “I wonder if this is his cell phone?”

Cat looked at it. “If it is, I doubt he’d like to hear from us anymore tonight. Tomorrow, however, his curiosity might be high again. I’ll give the number a try then.” She rolled her stiff shoulders. “I’m too tired to think, anyway. Let’s find the bedroom and get some sleep.”

One half of the attic had been partitioned off to form a sleeping area with a double bed, dresser, mirror, nightstand, lamp, and alarm clock. There was no bathroom upstairs. The only one was located off the restaurant’s dining room, and it had no tub or shower. As Angie switched on the bedroom lamp, Cat shut the downstairs lights. A soft glow illuminated the small space.

“I guess that’s the only bed,” Cat said with dismay at the small size of it. She pulled the top blanket off, creating a cloud of dust in the room. Angie sneezed.

“What are you doing?” she asked as Cat lifted off the next blanket and a sheet.

“Checking the sheets,” Cat said. “I want no surprises when I get under them.” She even took off the bottom sheet to inspect the mattress. Seeing its many stains, she wished she hadn’t.

Angie, meanwhile, had been opening bureau drawers. “Clean sheets,” she announced, lifting out some folded ones. She shook them out.

They remade the bed. Then as Cat used the old sheets to dust off the furniture and the mirror, Angie went downstairs, and soon came back up with a broom and dustpan.

She began to sweep the dust from the floor and under the bed. So much kicked up, they were in a haze. Cat opened the window. It looked out onto the main street. She stuck her head out, then quickly pulled it back inside. She huddled next to the wall and whispered to Angie, “Give me the dustpan.”

“I’ve got to dump it out first.”

“No. Now!”

Cat held out her hand, and Angie passed it to her. Cat dumped the dirt and dust out the window.

They heard a loud “
Kachoo!
” followed by running footsteps.

“Who was that?” Angie asked.

“A policeman,” Cat said with almost eerie calm. She clapped her hands to get rid of the dust. “I think they really are looking for us!”

She quickly shut and locked the window.

“A couple of cops came into the restaurant earlier,” Angie said, remembering Bruno’s odd reaction to the visit. “We might not be the only ones they’re after.”

Cat’s eyes widened. “Marcello said someone was after him. And if Paavo’s boss is talking to Rome about me, surely he’d also ask them to look for Marcello and Rocco. What better place than here?”

“If it was a cop outside just now,” Angie said, “he’d be investigating why the lights are on. I think it was someone else.”

“Whoever it was, they’re gone. Screw them!” Cat sounded too tired to care about anything more as she trotted downstairs to wash up in the restaurant’s bathroom.

Bemused, Angie stared at the closed window for a second. If nothing else, Cat was decisive. She soon followed her sister.

When she returned, Cat was sitting up in bed. She wore faded men’s pajamas, once blue and white striped, but now shades of dingy gray. “There are some old pj’s in the drawer below the one with the sheets,” she said.

Angie found one pair left in the drawer, but the elastic around the waist had been stretched out, the seat worn thin. She decided not to think about it, and with a shudder put them on. Only one of three buttons was still on the top piece. Cat’s pajamas had all of its buttons, and she bet the elastic worked as well. She wouldn’t put it past her sister to have checked out both pairs, and then refolded the ones she didn’t want.

“I wonder who they belonged to?” Angie said with a slight “ickiness” to her tone.

“I’d rather not know.” Cat yawned.

Holding the pants up and the top closed, Angie headed for the bed.

“You sleep over there.” Cat pointed at the side nearest the window. “This is the dividing line.” Using her hand like a hatchet, she marked the division between the two sides. “You stay on your own side. Don’t let your feet get near me. Keep your arms to yourself, and if you sleep on your side, face the window. I hate anyone breathing in my direction.”

“Do you give Charles all these rules as well?” Angie asked, pulling the covers up to her chin as she lay down.

Cat’s response was to glower. Angie took it as a yes.

The mattress was lumpy.

“Poor Charles,” Angie said, bounding around, trying to get comfortable.

“Poor Charles?” Cat repeated. “Why do you say that?”

“You and Marcello are having an affair.”

“What?” Cat sputtered. “I could never make love to a man who uses more hair product and wears more jewelry than I do!”

“The truth, Cat!”

Cat reached over and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. “Maybe there was a spark of something between us. But I’ve never . . . I take my wedding vows seriously, Angie.”

“You never talk about Charles,” Angie pointed out.

“Why should I? He’s just my husband.”

The words were only half joking. Angie waited for Cat to say more.

“I know everyone thinks my life is about as perfect as it can get,” Cat said. A streetlight near the window cast the room in a pale glow. “I mean, look at me. I look like a happy person, don’t I? These clothes, this hair, this face, this body.”

This modesty,
Angie thought, but kept her mouth shut.

“How could I be anything but happy?” Cat said into the shadows. “Have you ever wondered why I have a job? Charles and I have money, more than we could ever dream of spending even if it weren’t for the trust Papa gave all of us girls. Charles makes a fortune with his investment banking. But Angie, the man can be so dull. Sometimes I want to put a mirror under his nose to see if he’s still alive. He lives in his own little world. I’ve created another for myself. I’m good—no, great—at what I do, but sometimes . . . sometimes it gets a little lonely.”

Cat’s words jarred Angie. She’d never admitted anything like that to her before. “So you were looking for excitement?”

“Probably. It wasn’t Marcello. He didn’t interest me for himself. It was just feeling alive again. Do you understand what I mean? To think that someone could be interested in me, to flirt, was fun. Nothing more.”

“And when you saw him rushing away from a crime scene, carrying the object you went to the house to look for, your adrenaline began pumping and you went after him. You felt alive.”

“It was stupid. I should have just gone home,” Cat said softly.

Angie conjured up a picture of the stooped, slightly balding man Cat was married to, the sort who looked fifty-five even when he was in his twenties. “Do you still love Charles?”

Angie expected to be told it was none of her damn business, but Cat was silent a long while. “He’s stalwart,” she said. “Loyal. Trustworthy.”

“So’s a German shepherd.”

“He’s . . . nice. A good provider.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Or does it?”

“You ask too many questions, Angie.” Cat rolled to her side. “Now go to sleep.”

Angie suddenly felt bad for her sister. She no longer doubted there was an ulterior motive for Cat rushing off to Italy on this peculiar adventure, but the reason her sister had done it was quite different from what Angie had expected.

Chapter 21

Daly City, just south of San Francisco, was one of the original “ticky-tacky little houses” communities where every house looked like every other one on the block. Since the homes were once cheap, a number of older San Francisco cops still lived there. As the prices of homes went higher, though, fewer young police could afford the area. Fewer still could afford much of anything in the Bay Area unless their wives also worked full-time.

Sometimes Paavo, who’d grown up knowing what it was like to be poor, felt almost guilty about having a fiancée as wealthy as Angie. With her, if he wanted, he’d never have to work again.

She often worried about the dangers of his job. He knew she’d be perfectly happy if he quit the police force and did something safe, like helping her father with the operation of the many shoe stores he had opened up in malls throughout Northern California. Salvatore was considering setting up franchises. The man was at the age when he should have been thinking about retiring, and his heart condition definitely meant he should slow down.

Sal, however, would probably be so bored if he retired that it might end his life sooner than his heart condition would. The idea of being stuck behind a desk looking at financial reports and purchase orders on shoes gave Paavo nightmares.

He chose to ignore Angie’s wealth. He’d continue to live as he always had once they were married. Except for the fancy home he knew she’d want to live in and the clothes she’d buy him and probably expect him to wear. He’d already received enough ribbing from guys on the force about the Corvette she’d bought him as a belated Christmas gift. And that was from men who actually envied him his car.

Paavo turned off Highway 280 and drove to the far western edge of Daly City. He quickly located the nondescript rancher. It needed fresh paint, the lawn was half dead, and along the house’s side yard, not in the driveway, was a van with lettering on the side: assurance security company.

He rang the doorbell.

“Yes?” The woman answering appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her face was free of makeup, her shoulder-length highlighted blond hair uncombed. Her gaze drifted approvingly over Paavo as she ran her hand through her hair, lifting and causing the top portion to flop to one side. A short T-shirt over ample, braless breasts showed four inches of a narrow waist. She wore drawstring sweatpants, riding low, and was barefoot.

Paavo presented his badge. “Is Mr. Len Ferguson home?”

Her mouth tightened. “Yes. What’s this about?”

Paavo studied her closely a moment. “I’d like a word with him.”

She looked ready to ask her question again, but then grimaced and said, “I’ll get him.”

Before long, a barrel-chested, sandy-haired, overweight man in need of a shave stood before him. “You looking for me?”

“I have a few questions,” Paavo said.

“I’m trying to eat dinner.”

Paavo’s voice chilled. He could care less, and he let Ferguson know it. “You didn’t respond to my earlier calls.”