The Fine Art of Murder (15 page)

Lippi returned. “Scum!” he muttered angrily. “I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“It isn’t your fault,” I said. “I do wish there wasn’t all this notoriety associated with my arrival. I assumed I’d show up quietly, take part in your lineup, feel good about having done it, and return home.”

“Ah,” Curso said as he motioned for another drink, “life is never as simple as we would like it to be.”

Lippi checked his watch and said, “I’m afraid I must go now. We are grateful to you, Mrs. Fletcher, for being here, and I apologize for any hardships it might entail.”

“I must admit that I’ll be glad when it’s over, Detective. When will the lineup take place?”

“We have scheduled it for late tomorrow afternoon. I have a suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“It will not help our cause if the lawyers for Lombardi know that you have seen this newspaper article with their client’s picture in it. They will claim that your having seen it has tainted your objectivity.”

“I understand,” I said, “but I won’t lie if I’m asked.”

“No, of course not. I only suggest that you not offer the information without being prompted.”

I agreed.

“One final bit of advice,” said Lippi. “If you decide to venture from the hotel alone, please take care with your personal possessions. Street crime is on the rise here in Rome, with young thieves snatching purses from the unsuspecting. Be aware of your surroundings at all times.”

“Thank you for the warning,” I said. “I’ll certainly heed it.”

When Curso and I were alone in the booth, he said, “Now, my friend, maybe we can find time to discuss the book I have proposed.”

I heard what he said, but the words seemed far away. As I stared down at the newspaper that Lippi had left on the table, the knot in my stomach grew and I felt a wave of fatigue wash over me.

“Are you all right, Jessica?” Curso asked.

“What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. It must be jet lag, my circadian rhythms out of kilter.”

“I was asking about the collaboration between us, but it seems that now is not the time. This lovely lady needs a rest.”

I smiled. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Would you excuse me?”

“But of course. I want to see you rested and relaxed when we go to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Food was the last thing on my mind at that moment.

“I have a surprise for you this evening,” he said.

“I’m not sure that I’m up for any surprises, Tony.”

“Nonsense. Come, you must go to your room and nap. I promised the bartender, a very good friend, to show him a variation on the Hurricane, a popular cocktail in New Orleans. The last time I was there I stopped in to see the bartender at Pat O’Brien’s, who showed me this new approach to making the drink. It’s all in the mix and—”

I placed my hand on his and said, “If I don’t get to that nap, you’ll be carrying me.”

“Of course, of course.”

He escorted me to the elevators. “Sleep tight,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I’ll call you at, say, five. We’ll have an early dinner, yes?”

“Yes, fine, Tony. That will be fine.”

I didn’t realize how upsetting seeing my photograph in the newspaper had been until I’d gotten out of my clothes, stretched out on the bed, and pulled the comforter over me. I hadn’t bargained on this sort of intrigue. It was to have been a simple matter of showing up, peering through a piece of one-way glass, identifying the culprit (assuming that he was in the lineup), and going home (or, more accurately, back to Chicago). Instead, I’d ended up the subject of media scrutiny—the sort no one seeks or is comfortable with.

I dozed off in the midst of these thoughts and awoke two hours later, groggy but rested. It was only noon, which gave me some time before Curso called for me at five. I decided to shower, slip on comfortable clothing and walking shoes, have lunch sent up, and take a leisurely stroll.

An hour later I stepped out onto Via Bocca di Leone, ready to do a little exploring. I knew that the hotel was only a short walk from Rome’s fabled Piazza di Spagna, the Spanish Steps, 137 of them built by the French to create easier access to their church of Trinità dei Monti from the plaza below. I rounded a corner and headed for the plaza along Via Condotti, Rome’s fashionable shopping street, stopping at window after window to admire the endless array of high-priced clothing and fashion accessories offered by shops with famous names. The pleasant, sunny weather had brought Romans and tourists to the streets, and walking was sometimes slow going because of the crowds clogging the sidewalks. I reached the Spanish Steps ten minutes later and stopped at the base to get my bearings. Should I make the trek up? I put off that decision, opting instead to follow the charming Via Margutta off to the left, lined with art galleries and stalls erected on the sidewalk by artists. As I perused the works for sale, I thought about how tragic it was that such beautiful works of art had become fodder for organized crime like drugs and extortion and prostitution. I spent a few minutes admiring a landscape by a young female artist, envisioning it on that blank wall space in my home, but decided this was not the time to be making a major purchase.

Instead I retraced my path back to the plaza at the base of the steps and stopped in at the Keats-Shelley Memorial, the final home of the poet John Keats. I bought two small volumes of the poets’ works before going to the rococo fountain, Fontana della Barcaccia, from which tourists and locals alike who were about to climb the steps satisfied their thirst before making the ascent. I, too, drank from the fountain, which is in the shape of the boats that plied the waters of the nearby Tiber River, then drew a few preliminary breaths and started up. I made sure to check that the money belt I always traveled with was secure around my waist, Detective Lippi’s admonition firmly in mind.

The steps were as crowded as the sidewalks had been. Along with tourists and locals out for a day in the sun were what seemed to be hundreds of men and women of all ages heavily made up and wearing a variety of costumes. I stopped to observe a group of them who were posing for tourist cameras, and asked a man taking pictures who they were.

“Models,” he said in a British accent. “They pose here hoping to catch the eye of an artist from the fine arts academies that seem to be everywhere. Appears they’d be better off getting a real job.”

I smiled, thanked him for the information, and continued my climb.

I reached the first of three landings on which dozens of artisans hawked their products and enjoyed a few minutes’ rest before continuing. I’d gotten halfway to the second landing when I found my path blocked by two young men playfully jostling each other. I stopped, then tried to skirt them. As I passed behind one of the men, the other pushed him against me, sending me toppling backward into a family of tourists. The husband tried to break my fall but was unsuccessful. I knocked down the family’s teenage daughter and, as I did, I continued falling over her, headfirst, until my forehead came to rest against the edge of one of the steps. I felt a searing pain where contact had been made and my hand automatically went to my head. Blood—my blood—ran through my fingers. Everything went black, replaced by shooting stars and jagged lightning. I heard voices—“Are you all right, lady?”—and someone knelt next to me and placed fingertips on my cheek.

I looked up into blurred faces. My vision cleared somewhat and I used my left arm to attempt to right myself. The moment I put pressure on it, pain radiated from the shoulder down to my hand.

“Take it easy,” someone said.

“Get an ambulance.”

“No,” I said, now able to at least sit up.

Someone handed me a rag, which I pressed to the bleeding wound on my forehead.

“I don’t need an ambulance,” I protested as I struggled to regain my equilibrium. It was at that moment, while sitting on the Spanish Steps surrounded by strangers, my head pounding and my shoulder and arm aching, that I peered up into the eyes of the young man who’d crashed into me and sent me sprawling. He and his friend smiled, actually smiled, before they stepped out of my sight and were gone.

“No,” I muttered.

A woman leaned close. “No what, signora?”

I didn’t answer her because she wouldn’t have understood. I wasn’t certain myself. All I knew from my fleeting glance at my assailant—it was an assault, wasn’t it?—was that he looked like the second young man who’d barged into the church, stolen the Bellini, and escaped with his accomplice, who’d slain Mr. Fanello.

Chapter Seventeen

D
espite my protests, two members of the local Po-lizia, the civilian arm of Italian law enforcement, aided by two medical emergency technicians, carried this embarrassed woman down the Spanish Steps to a waiting ambulance that whisked me to a nearby hospital, the Ospedale San Giacomo, where I was taken to the emergency room and examined by the doctor on duty. He insisted upon a CAT scan of my head, which was negative, and an X-ray of my shoulder, which also didn’t show any serious damage—“a strained muscle” was the diagnosis. As I waited in one of the examining rooms after I’d been told I’d been discharged, I glanced at a clock on the wall. It was almost four; Curso would be calling my hotel room soon.

“Could I make a phone call?” I asked one of the nurses who spoke fluent English.

“Of course,” she said.

I didn’t know the number for the hotel, but she got it from Information and placed the call, asking to be connected to Mr. Curso’s room. When he came on the line, she handed me the phone.

“Tony, it’s Jessica. There’s been a slight change in plans. I’m in the hospital.”

He gasped.

“I’m all right, Tony. I had an accident, that’s all. I’m fine.”

He asked which hospital I was calling from and I gave him the name.

“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes, Jessica, depending on the traffic. Stay right where you are.”

The doctor, a sweet-natured middle-aged man, told me, “I suggest that you rest for a day and do not hesitate to take the pain medicine you have been given whenever you need it. You will require transportation to your hotel?”

“No, thank you. Someone is picking me up.”

“Good. You are fortunate that your injuries aren’t more serious.”

“I’m grateful for that, and for your care.
Grazie!
”

Despite my protests that I felt perfectly capable of walking under my own steam, they insisted that I be wheeled from the ER to the lobby. As we moved through the hallway I thought of the elder Mrs. Simsbury and wondered what it was like to be permanently consigned to a wheelchair. Not a pleasant thought. Was her nasty disposition the result of her condition? Probably not. I suspected that she was one of those people born with a difficult personality, something in the genes, possibly enhanced by her upbringing.

The orderly who took me to the lobby wished me a “better” day and left me to await Curso’s arrival. Fifteen minutes later, he came to a screeching halt directly in front of the hospital—the car he drove was sporty and fire-engine red—and burst through the doors, threw up his hands at seeing me, and exclaimed, “What have they done to you?”

“They’ve been very nice to me and—”

“You look as though you have been beaten up,” he said as he came to where I sat, went down on one knee, and took my free hand. My other arm was in a sling.

“I guess I have been,” I said. “I’m ready to leave.”

“Of course.” He stood and pulled me up out of the chair.

While my injuries were restricted to my forehead and shoulder, I expected my entire body to ache as I walked with careful steps toward the door. It was when I was almost there that I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. A large compression bandage dominated my forehead, and the white sling covered one side of me. “I do look a mess,” I said, more to myself than to him.

His red sports car was difficult to enter, but I managed. He closed my door, ran around to the driver’s side, got in, and started the engine, which came to life with a roar.

“Where did you get this car?” I asked as he navigated traffic.

“A rental. I always use a rental agency that specializes in sports cars when I’m in Rome. It’s a Ferrari Scuderia 430, top of the line.” He was looking at me as he spoke and had to jam on the brakes to avoid piling into a double-parked delivery truck. The pain in my shoulder elicited a moan.

“Mi dispiace,”
he said. “Sorry. I’ll drive more slowly.”

The doorman at the hotel took one look at me and winced. “What happened, signora?” he asked as Curso helped me out of his car.

“An accident,” I said. “I fell.”

“Or was pushed,” Curso said angrily as he guided me into the lobby and to the elevators.

I’d told him during the trip that two young Italian men had been horsing around and had bumped into me, causing me to tumble backward. I also mentioned that one of them resembled the second armed thief in the church in L’Aquila, and added that they’d looked down at me and smiled as though pleased that I’d fallen. My tale elicited a string of Italian curses, or at least what sounded like profanity. I didn’t ask for a translation.

A mirror in the entranceway to my room drew my attention and I moved closer to examine the damage. “I look like who-did-it-and-ran,” I said.

“A dreadful experience,” Curso said. “Did the police make a report?”

“I suppose so, although it appeared to them to be nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

“But from what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound as though it was.”

“No, I think it was deliberate,” I said as I settled in a chair by the window.

“Then we must take every step possible to protect you while in Rome,” he said. “I will call the police and demand that they provide twenty-four-hour guards.”

“Oh, no, Tony. I really don’t think that’s necessary. Maybe it
was
an accident.”

“Still, better to be safe. They owe you protection, considering the reason you are here. I’ll call Maresca and Lippi.”

He used his cell phone to place the call, reached Lippi at police headquarters, and told him what had happened, speaking mostly in Italian. After he’d hung up, he said, “They will assign security for the duration of your stay, Jessica.”

I was in no mood to argue and simply said, “Thank you.”

“You must rest,” Curso said.

I nodded. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.

“I will cancel dinner plans,” he said.

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’ll be fine after a nap. You said you had a surprise for me.”

“I do. I did. Perhaps you are not up to it.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Just let me rest. Give me half an hour?”

“I’ll call you in an hour. Rest now. I will see you later.”

I heard him close the door and breathed a sigh of relief. As much as I enjoyed his company, I needed time alone to sort out what had occurred that day. I couldn’t be sure, of course, that the young man who knocked me down was one of the two men at the church. I’d caught only a fleeting, blurred glimpse of him. What stayed with me was the cruel smile on both men’s faces. While others scrambled to help me, they’d exhibited smug pleasure at what had happened. Why would anyone do that—unless my plight was the result of a deliberate act on their part?

Aside from a slight stinging sensation where my head wound had been stitched, I was surprisingly pain free, despite not having taken any of the medicine given me at the emergency room. All in all, I felt pretty good considering what I’d just gone through, which fortified my decision to go through with dinner that night.

After dozing off in the chair for a little while, I got up, took my arm out of the sling, and gingerly moved my shoulder. Not bad, not bad at all. Maybe New England’s fabled stoicism was at work.

I wondered where and when the uniformed security Curso said would be provided was going to show up. I didn’t relish the idea of having armed guards, no matter how discreet they might be. Would they be in uniform, or would plainclothes officers be assigned? I abandoned that question to focus on my appearance. Another trip to the mirror wasn’t comforting. I decided to carefully remove the compression bandage and see if I could fashion something less conspicuous. It took a few minutes to peel it away, and the resulting image wasn’t nearly as bad as I had imagined it would be. The surgeon had done a skillful job with the stitches, and aside from some mild swelling and a bluish green hue, the wound wasn’t grotesque. Hopefully we’d have dinner in a dimly lit restaurant.

I watched a portion of a John Wayne western with Italian subtitles, then got in the shower, careful to avoid disturbing the wound, and dressed for the evening. I elected to go out sans the sling but tucked it in my large purse in case my shoulder started aching later.

Curso came to my room and escorted me downstairs to where his rented red Ferrari waited at the curb.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he settled into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key.

“Surprisingly well,” I said.

“That’s wonderful to hear, Jessica. I would hate to think of you going through the evening in pain.”

“I have some pills if I start to hurt, but I don’t expect I’ll need them. Now, where are we going, and what is this surprise you mentioned?”

“To answer your first question, we are going for an early dinner in the town of Calcata, thirty miles north of the city.”

“Calcutta? I know I blacked out this afternoon, but I didn’t think I’d gone to India.”

His laugh was gentle as he skirted a traffic tie-up by turning off the main road and racing down a narrow side street. “Not Calcutta, Jessica. Calcata. It’s a most interesting town, perhaps the grooviest village in all of Italy.”

“‘Grooviest’? You make it sound like some sort of hippy commune.”

“Exactly what it is. Hundreds of unusual characters, including many fine artists and performers who live and work there. The village was condemned by the government back in the thirties because officials were convinced that the cliffs on which it sits were ready to crumble. Inhabitants were forced to build a new town about a half mile to the north, and the old town was abandoned for years until artists and other bohemians decided to ignore the government’s warning and started moving in. These new Calcatesi have rejuvenated the village.”

“Evidently the government’s fears were unfounded,” I said.

“So far. As of today, the old village is still standing, inhabited by an eclectic mix of people. I thought you might enjoy seeing a part of Italy that most tourists miss.”

“I’m always open to seeing new things,” I said as he took a corner at a speed that caused the car to tip a little. “Would you please slow down, Tony?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I forgot I have a patient with me.”

I contented myself with taking in the passing countryside as we traveled on a highway—the sign said it was the Cassia Bis—and finally came to a stop at an open gate that was too narrow for a vehicle to pass through. Curso turned off the engine, looked at me, and smiled. “We’re here,” he announced.

“We can’t drive any farther?”

“Afraid not. We leave the car here and walk into the village.”

My silence reminded him that I might not be up to taking a walk, especially considering that the cobblestone lane was uphill.

“If you are not able to walk, Jessica, I certainly understand. I should have taken that into consideration.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping that I would be.

“We’ll walk slowly, take our time. We have the whole night ahead of us, huh?”

I hoped not, but I didn’t argue. I’d been looking for signs of the security detail but saw no one who fit that bill. I asked Curso about it and he said, “They will be discreet, Jessica. Good security officers fade into the background.”

I looked back in the direction from which we’d come in search of someone who might qualify as a security officer, but we were alone.

“Did you tell the police that we were coming to this town?” I asked.

“No.”

“So how would they follow us?” I asked, thinking of the speed at which Curso had driven.

“They have their ways,” he replied. “Not to worry, Jessica. You’re in very good hands.”

“If you say so,” I said, not brimming with confidence.

We set off up the path at a slow gait, stopping now and then for me to rest, although I really didn’t need to. I was feeling fine, so we picked up the pace until we reached a small plaza amid a jumble of ancient stone buildings that appeared to be built one atop the other. Curso said the town dated back to at least the thirteenth century, and from the looks of it, it might have been even older. At the center of the plaza was a small provincial church, which we stopped to admire.

The plaza was lively. Outdoor cafés were crowded with an assortment of men, women, and children. Some of the men wore saris and sported long ponytails. The attire of their female companions ran the gamut from jeans and T-shirts to floor-length flowered dresses from another era. I noticed one couple in pajamas enjoying a drink in a café. A man put on a puppet show, and two guitarists competed at cafés opposite each other. Everywhere were signs advertising art galleries, many tucked away down tiny streets off the plaza, others on the square itself with outdoor displays of the artists’ latest works.

“Hungry?” Curso asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I reported.

“Good. I’ve made reservations at a charming restaurant, Grotta dei Germogli, owned by a friend, Pancho Garrison. He’s an American. His partner, Paul Steffen, was a dancer and choreographer in Hollywood during its heyday. His stories about the great stars he knew are always amusing. Don’t let the surroundings throw you off, Jessica. It’s in a cave lined with mosaic tiles. But the food is good—nouvelle Italian, I suppose you could call it.”

“And of course you know the bartender there,” I said playfully.

“The owner mixes the drinks. He’s quite good at it, although I suggest we stick to wine. Come, it’s only a short walk.”

The restaurant certainly was built inside a cave. You had to duck to enter through the cave’s mouth, and the space between tables was just enough to slide by sideways. Curso was greeted by his friend, the owner, and we were seated in the deep recesses of the space. A few other tables were occupied by tourists who spoke Italian. “Calcata is a favorite getaway for Romans,” Curso explained. “For them it’s like traveling to a different world only thirty miles away.”

Our dinner was excellent. The owner insisted that he choose the menu for the evening—I’m not sure what all the ingredients were, but the result was tasty and not heavy, for which I was grateful. The only problem was that sitting for more than an hour in a cramped space caused my shoulder to begin to throb, not to the point that I pulled out the sling, but enough to cause me to shift position frequently.