The Da Vinci Cook (24 page)

Paavo frowned. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.

“Would you tell me what’s going on with Marcello?” Josie asked. “I don’t understand any of this. Do you think the murder at his house is somehow connected with my mother’s death?”

Paavo told what he could.

“A chain of St. Peter?” Josie shook her head in disgust. “That sounds like the sort of wild-ass thing Marcello would decide to use to make his fortune. Or Rocco. Neither wanted to recognize that the only way to get ahead was through hard work.”

“I was wondering,” Paavo said cautiously, “if you’d be willing to take a look at the body found in Marcello’s house. He might be a friend, someone from Marcello’s past or some associate.”

Josie studied him uneasily, as if something in his eyes or expression might have given his thoughts away. “I’ll do so, if you wish,” she said finally. “But I can’t imagine I’d recognize him.”

Paavo drew in his breath as he gave voice to the suspicion that had been lurking in his subconscious. “I have the feeling you just might.”

Chapter 28

In two hours, Cat returned with a bedraggled Cosimo in tow, his legs bowed under the weight of several shopping bags.

“Bruno,” she announced with a smile, “you owe Cosimo only a hundred ninety euros for all this. I am the best shopper you’ll ever meet.”

“What?” he yelled, red-faced. “A hundred ninety euros? For what?”

“You shopped?” Angie was aghast . . . and envious. She was also glad to see Cosimo, since she’d been stuck bussing dishes in his absence.

“I had to do it,” Cat said, a smile on her face for the first time since they’d arrived in Rome. “I couldn’t help myself. This place needs freshening up.”

“You shopped?” Angie repeated, as if it was the most wonderful word in the language.

From her bags, Cat pulled gold Florentine and glass candle holders; matching salt and pepper shakers; white linen napkins; gold brocade curtains; matching round tablecloths; and smaller, square white cloth to go over them.

For the walls, she’d bought a series of framed sketches of Da Vinci’s ideas for inventions, from helicopters to crossbows.

“I’m going to redecorate this place and make it look the way it should!” Cat announced to Bruno. Then she smiled at Luigi and said. “I told you you’re wasting my talent. I’m a shopper, not a chopper!”

Angie gawked, mouth open. Shopping certainly had put Cat in a good mood.

“The restaurant doesn’t need all these new things,” Bruno fumed, looking over Cat’s purchases. “I won’t pay!”

“My customers come here because they like my food!” Luigi bellowed.

Cosimo nodded. “
Sì
, and they like—”

Bruno elbowed Cosimo so hard he nearly toppled over.

“Of course they like the food,” Cat said, “but give them good food in a great atmosphere, and they’ll come even more often. I’m going to set things up.”

“No!” Bruno bellowed. “You cannot disturb my customers while they eat!”

“As each table is cleared and the old dirty linens removed,” Cat announced, “I’ll put the new linens on it. You’ll see how pleased customers will be. I know Marcello will love this.”

Cosimo sat in a corner, peering inconsolably at his now empty wallet.

Bruno shook his head and walked away, muttering something about bossy American women.

“Angie, I’m hearing two men say something about digging, but I can’t understand well enough to know what it is,” Cat whispered to her sister, returning to the kitchen after setting out new linens and candles on an empty table. “Their Italian is way too fast, but I think that’s what they said. They look like people who work outdoors.”

“The archeologists!” Angie cried. She peeked out the door. It was them.

As she watched, the older archeologist left his seat and headed for the restroom.

Angie took a full bread basket from the kitchen, waltzed over to the young man, and placed it on the table. “Enjoying your dinner, Stefano?” she asked, catching his eye.

“Very much,” he said, sitting back in his chair to fully enjoy her company. “Now.”

She rested her hand on the back of his father’s empty chair. “How is your project coming along? Are you finding much?”

“A lot. We report to the Curator of Antiquities at the Vatican—we work for him. That’s why we’re here so often.”

“I see,” she said. “You must know Marcello Piccoletti, then. Or his brother, Rocco.”

“I don’t know Rocco, but Marcello and my father are good friends.”

Noticing the father heading their way, Angie moved to the next table and began rearranging Cat’s new place settings on it.

“Time to go,” the father said. He glanced suspiciously at Angie as he threw some bills on the table.

The younger man also stood, but couldn’t take his eyes from her.
“Ciao,”
he called.

“Ciao!
” she said.

Still smiling at her, he put on a cap and headed out the door after his father.

Angie went to the window and watched them. The father looked like he had quite a bit to say to his son as they walked down the street. To her surprise, the young priest, Father Daniel, stepped from his rooming house and followed them. Why would that be?

She had to find out for herself.

Angie yanked off her apron, handed it to Bruno, and ran out the front door. The poor man probably thought she’d also decided to do some impromptu shopping.

She stayed close to the buildings as she watched the two archeologists and the priest, curious as to what was going on and if they knew each other.

The archeologists turned onto a side street.

Father Daniel crept along behind them in a way that quickly made it clear he didn’t want to be seen either.

Angie followed just as stealthily.

When the archeologists stopped and Father Daniel disappeared into a doorway, she ducked behind a Peugeot.

From down the street, a large gray car approached. The older archeologist stepped up to it, while the younger stayed on the sidewalk.

A hand reached out from the driver’s side with an envelope. The archeologist took it, nodded, and hurried back to his son.

The two got into a yellow car parked nearby.

The gray car rolled toward her. Angie curled up as much as she could, practically getting under the Peugeot. The car passed by, and from the streetlights, she saw the driver.

It was Marcello.

Paavo accompanied Josie to the morgue, which was every bit as cold and depressing in the day as it was at night. Maybe more so. He asked a technician to let her view the body on a screen.

When the tech motioned to Paavo that all was ready, Josie drew in a breath and watched the monitor. It flickered and came on.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped. She stared, then moved closer, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Color leached from her face.

Paavo took hold of her arm. “You recognize him?”

“Of course I do.” It took her a moment to find her voice enough to say, “It’s my brother.”

Chapter 29

When the restaurant closed, Cat and Angie went up to their bedroom. As soon as they were alone, Angie breathlessly described the strange meeting between Marcello and the archeologists. It appeared some money had changed hands.

“That explains everything,” Angie said. “They’ve got to be the source of the St. Peter’s chain. They must have felt it was too valuable to turn over to the Vatican, and sold it to Marcello. I wonder if he’s still paying them off.”

“It all fits,” Cat said.

Angie chattered on, but Cat ignored her, hoping she’d fall asleep soon. Cat had even more to talk to Marcello about now.

Although exhausted, instead of getting ready for bed, Cat lay atop the covers, closed her eyes, and announced that she wanted to think. Angie said she was going to relax a bit and then call Paavo. When Cat opened her eyes, it was to a dark room, quiet except for Angie’s light snores.

The meeting had been set for midnight. The fluorescent hands of the small alarm clock showed one-thirty. After lining up the pillows along her side of the bed and covering them with a blanket so that when Angie awoke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, which she inevitably would do, she wouldn’t grow suspicious, Cat snuck out of the restaurant.

She hesitated about going without Angie, but she had things to say to Marcello best said away from little sister’s big ears. There was no reason to be frightened of Marcello, and she had to stop filling her mind with doubts. Even their mothers were once good friends. Her heart lurched at the thought of Marcello’s mother.

A short taxi ride brought her to a house to the west of Vatican city, a residential area near the Valle Aurelia metro station.

“Aspetti, per piacere,
” she said to the taxicab driver, wanting to be sure she got inside before she sent him off.

She knocked twice on the door before she heard the dead bolt being released.

The door opened a crack, then wider. Marcello stood before her in light blue pajamas. The top was unbuttoned and hung open, exposing every follicle on his white, hairy chest. Even his toes were hairy.

“Uh . . . ” she said, then shut her gaping mouth.

He glanced down. “Sorry.” He started to button the top. “I’d given up on you.” His voice was husky with sleep. Something about the way he stared made her uneasy—sort of like being the last piece of chocolate on a tray when a chocoholic had just walked into the room. “Come on in.”

“It’s this late only because I had to wait until my sister was asleep.” She waved off the cab driver.

Marcello took her wrist, pulled her inside, and shut the door. “Go over to the sofa,” he ordered.

“The sofa?” Confused, she did as told.

He turned off the lamp and looked through the peephole in the door. It took a moment before her eyes adjusted. Between moonlight and the streetlights of the city, she could see well enough in the room. “Why are the lights off?”

“I’m being watched.” He sat beside her on the sofa. “This way, it’s easier for us to see them than for them to see us.”

She scooted away from him. “Marcello, you’ve got to tell me what’s happening. My husband has disappeared. We think he’s been taken hostage, and . . .” She stopped. She’d almost told him about his mother’s murder. But first she needed some answers.

“I wish I knew what was going on, Cat, but I don’t. All I can figure is that someone wants the chain of St. Peter, but I don’t know who it is, or why. Or who was killed in my own kitchen!”

“Where is Rocco?” Cat asked. “He’s got to have the answers. If he’s here in Rome, he must have contacted you. Don’t lie to me, Marcello. Not after what we’ve done.”

“I’m not lying, Trina.” He squeezed her hands in his. “Believe me, I’d never lie to you. I don’t know who’s after the chain. And Rocco hasn’t approached me. I swear it, Trina.” His hands went to her elbow.

She pulled her arms free and looked around the dark space. “Whose home is this? It’s a far cry from your place in San Francisco.”

“It belongs to a friend. I left my hotel. Too many people knew I stayed there. Who told you where I was? My mother?”

At the casual mention of his mother, Cat’s heart twisted. She couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer. All her other reasons for needing to talk to him, all her questions, were going to have to wait. Compassion for him, for the horrible news she bore, filled her, and she took his hand. “I want to assure you that I’m here for you.”

“And I am for you.” He slid closer, his arms snaking around her as he leaned forward to loom above her. “I’ve always cared about you. You’re the most beautiful, the smartest woman I’ve ever met. Surely, you know that.”

“Marcello, please!” She crawled out from under him and stood, then smoothed her jacket. How had she gotten into such a situation? “You’ve got this all wrong! I’m here because I care—”

“You care? Trina,
cara,
I’ve always wanted to hear that.” His voice was a deep rumble, and she felt it in the pit of her stomach as he, too, stood. His arms circled her again, like an octopus with Velcro tentacles.

She backed away, but he stayed right with her. In the dark, she backed into a table. The lamp nearly toppled over. She kept going. “Marcello!”