The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) (6 page)

Bianca licked my hand and then sat down in front of me, panting with a wide-open mouth that looked like a smile.

“She’s gorgeous.” I patted her on the head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to make sure she settled in and that she’d be happy here. So it was best not to say anything prematurely. She’s a labrador mix.”

“She certainly looks happy.”

Dad looked happy too, I realized. The slump in his shoulders was less pronounced, and I thought that maybe he’d put on some of the weight he’d lost after my mum died. He’d let his greying hair grow a little longer than usual. His denim blue eyes, the same color as mine, sparkled.

With Bianca at our heels, we went into the living room where the sun laid slabs of warm yellow on the pale limestone floor. The room looked as it always had. Dark antique furniture stood against creamy walls that held framed pictures of my family. I’d taken some of them myself. Open French windows led to a terrace overlooking the garden. It wasn’t warm, but the air was clear and, after the constant rain in London, it felt positively balmy. Standing out in the sunlight, I surveyed the garden, which was ready to burst into bloom.

“It rained all week,” Dad said. “The sun came out specially for you. Take a seat, and I’ll bring us some tea.”

Bianca lay under the coffee table and was asleep within seconds. If only I could fall asleep that easily. Still unsettled by the assault in the taxi, I stood up and wandered round the room, coming to rest in front of the photos on the wall. In the middle was a picture of my family. I don’t know who took it, because we were all in it. Mum and Dad, Leo and me— and Toby. I felt my throat close up. Little Toby was holding my hand and grinning that goofy grin of his. I must have been about ten. He’d have been two, and this would be just a few months before the accident. I flinched as my stomach contracted. How could something that happened twenty years ago still have the power to inflict so much pain? I took several deep breaths. It was a managing tool I’d taught myself to use whenever the memories bubbled up. Today, it didn’t seem to be working. Perhaps the stress of yesterday evening and the theft of the duffle and the book had weakened my usual defenses.

Dad brought in tea and biscotti. He paused, still holding the tray, when he saw me looking at the pictures.

“Are you okay, pet?”

I blinked tears away before turning to face him. “Yes.” I managed a smile. “I’m fine.”

“So what happened with the luggage?” he asked as he put the tray on the coffee table. “Did the airline lose it?”

“No. It was stolen.”

He looked up at me. “Stolen? Where?”

I related the story of the man who’d tricked us into leaving the main road. “He took my duffle bag, but my laptop wasn’t in it, thank goodness. This is such a short trip, I decided to manage without it. Just as well, as it turns out.”

“Goodness, Kate. That’s terrifying. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. He nabbed my bag and drove off.” I didn’t say anything about him hitting the taxi driver.

Dad shook his head. “It’s sad that we have to be so careful. You think someone’s trying to help you, but they’re not. I’ve heard of this happening before.” He peered at me. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely, I promise. I was upset and then I was angry. The police don’t think I’ll ever see my bag again.”

I decided not to mention the book or my increasing suspicion that the robber had targeted me. Had he known the book was in my bag?

“So what’s the business thing you have to deal with?” Dad asked. He poured tea and handed me the plate of biscotti. They were pistachio, my favorite.

I’d considered this on the flight over and now settled for parts of the truth. “Ethan Hamilton needed to get some papers to his sister in a hurry so I volunteered. It gave me a chance to see you.”

“His father’s accident was a terrible thing,” Dad said. “I sent my condolences. I haven’t seen Ethan for years, not since he went to the States. How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing fine. Considering.”

“I saw Claire recently though. When I was buying vegetables at the Mercato Centrale. She recognized me and came over to say hello. Says she’s got a job in the restoration department at the Uffizi.” He broke a piece off his biscotti. “Didn’t you two have a falling out once?”

“Hmm.”

I didn’t really want to rehash all that. Claire and I had comported ourselves well at her father’s funeral, both of us willing to forget our old quarrel.

“It was a silly teenage girl drama,” I said. “Perhaps we can take Bianca for a walk?”

The dog’s eyes flew open when I uttered the magic word. Dad must have been training her in English. It was good to stroll through the narrow streets of the village, with its white stuccoed houses and red tile roofs. I caught up with the local news and chatted to neighbors, who all made a fuss of Bianca. When we got home, we made a mess in the big kitchen, chopping vegetables for salad and cooking risotto
ai frutti de mare
.

Just as we sat down to dinner, Claire called. It sounded as though she was in a restaurant or at a party. Glasses clinked over a loud hum of voices. I was relieved to hear from her and happy when she said she’d be home the next morning. She gave me her address.

“What is it that Ethan gave you to bring over?” she asked.

“A book…” I trailed off. I didn’t have the book any longer. “Some papers,” I said, deciding not to go into it on the phone. “Has Ethan been in touch with you?”

“Not since, let me think, Thursday. We spoke then. Why?”

“He told me he’s coming to Florence, but I don’t know when.”

“Oh, okay. I’m sure he’ll call before he turns up.”

It worried me that Ethan hadn’t contacted her, but she didn’t seem very curious about why he was coming to see her. We agreed to meet at her flat in the city center at eleven in the morning. After that, I’d get a shuttle to Pisa for my afternoon flight to London.

Over dinner, Dad asked me about my job and how things were with Josh. He liked my boyfriend, which made family get-togethers easy.

“I’m glad you’re back at work,” he said. “I was worried when you took that time off. Your boss isn’t the most understanding type.”

“It’s going well,” I assured him. “Alan’s being quite decent, and I’ve been promoted to the sustainable design team. We have a major proposal out to a company called Randall Development. It’s my dream come true, Dad, to collaborate on a project with a developer who’s as highly regarded as Randall is. So keep your fingers crossed that they accept our proposal. We should hear in a week or two.”

Dad patted my hand. “Your mum would have been proud of you, sweetheart. I know I am.”

For a few seconds, my voice caught in my throat. I missed Mum every day but, wanting to avoid upsetting Dad, I smiled and promised to keep him updated on how the project went. He insisted on serving me a second helping of the delicious risotto and we stopped just short of licking our plates clean.

Over espressos and thimble-sized glasses of grappa, he raised the dreaded subject. “Do you still see those aura things?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

He frowned. When I’d first told him about them, he’d been distraught, unwilling to accept something so bizarre and abnormal. It didn’t fit with his worldview at all.

“You feel well?” he pressed. “Physically, I mean? No headaches, nothing like that?”

I poured us both another centimeter of grappa. “I’m completely healthy, I promise. Anita measures my blood pressure practically every time I see her.” I laughed at his skeptical expression. “Honestly, you wouldn’t believe how embarrassing it is when she takes my pulse in public.” She’d only actually done that once, but I wanted to jolly Dad out of being worried about me. “If I have a zero point one percent uptick on my cholesterol count, Anita will catch it. There are perks to having a doctor as your best friend.”

He smiled. “That’s good then. You know I worry…”

“But you don’t need to.” I finished my coffee. “It’s getting late. Do you mind if I go up?”

With Bianca panting alongside me, I climbed the stone stairs. My bedroom was cozy and familiar, with sunny yellow walls and white curtains that fell in silken cascades to the tiled floor. When I rummaged in the drawers for an old T-shirt to sleep in I was glad to see I had a small stash of underwear, socks, a cream shirt and a clean sweater stored there too. I was still upset that my bag had been taken, and the loss of the book bothered me.

Silence settled around me. The only sound was of Bianca snoring softly as she lay on the floor next to my bed. Usually I slept blissfully in the comforting embrace of the old house, but tonight I lay awake, rehashing the events of the last twenty-four hours. By one in the morning, I was up and pacing the room, jittery and apprehensive. What if the thief had in fact been after the book? What if he realized he didn’t have the key and came looking for it? What if I’d led a criminal to my father’s house? I glanced at Bianca, who was snuffling in her sleep. She wasn’t exactly a fierce guard dog. The best she could do would be to lick an intruder into submission.

A noise outside made me jump. My heart pounded. Was someone breaking in? The dog raised her head. She’d heard it too. With the lights still off, I eased open my balcony door and peered out. Bianca trotted over to stand beside me, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed the air. The moon was high, glazing the gardens with silver. And, in the center of the lawn, a robber in a mask looked up at us.

The raccoon was squatting on the bird table, chewing on birdseed. Using his long-fingered forepaws, he scraped the seed into a neat pile before eating it. Our presence didn’t seem to bother him until Bianca gave a low growl. Then, with one last bite, the little thief jumped down to the grass and ran into the shrubs.

I slept sporadically for the rest of the night and jumped out of bed as soon as dawn lightened the room. I showered and dressed, and by the time I’d dried my hair, the fragrance of coffee drifted up the stairs. With Bianca following close behind, I hurried down to join Dad in the kitchen.

Over breakfast, we made plans for Easter weekend. Josh and I planned to come, as did Leo, with Olivia and the boys.

“Invite Ethan and Claire,” Dad said. “I’d like to see them again.”

I would, I decided, assuming that Ethan ever called me back.

Dad stood and took a pair of secateurs from a drawer. “The camellias are blooming. I thought you could take some over to Claire’s.”

Just after ten thirty, I knelt to hug Bianca before getting into Dad’s car. Her shining brown eyes gazed into mine as though she’d known me her whole life. I wondered if she knew that I was different, that I had this strange ability to see auras. I’d read that dogs could sense the presence of ghosts. I shivered. What if Bianca could see auras like I could? Did she see one over me?

I gave her an extra hug and stood up. I was being ridiculous.

The drive into Florence didn’t take long, only ten minutes to the Lungarno, where Dad let me out in front of the Biblioteca Nazionale. Most private vehicles were banned from the city center. I gathered the flowers from the back seat where he’d put them and watched as he drove away. It was sad to say goodbye, but I’d see him again in a couple of weeks. And Bianca would keep him company.

The walk to Claire’s house took me through the Piazza Santa Croce. As I crossed the square, I felt the emotions that Florence always stirred in me— a mix of delight in being there and frustration at having to share it with thousands of visitors from all over the world. A large group of Americans milled around the entry to the church, following a young woman holding a yellow umbrella. The steps in front served as seating for young people taking selfies, and the square teemed with street vendors hawking scarves and leather bags. Still, I loved it all.

I checked my watch and picked up my pace. It was almost eleven. Claire lived on Via Dei Pepi, so I left the piazza and walked up Via Petripiana, past the post office, which had to be one of the ugliest buildings in Tuscany. The crowds thinned in the more residential areas where parked mopeds and shuttered shops lined the pavements; most Italians would still be in church or at home preparing lunch. And the shops didn’t open on Sundays. Here and there, I caught tantalizing glimpses of the russet dome of the cathedral framed against the blue sky.

Cradling the flowers in one arm, I checked in my shoulder bag yet again to make sure that the leather pouch was still there. I wondered what Claire would make of all this. I no longer had the book and there’d been no word from Ethan. It seemed I was on a fool’s errand.

Number 40 was a four-story town house stuccoed in cream, symmetrically arranged around an arched front door with a weathered brass handle. I scanned the panel set into the wall and pressed the bell next to Claire’s name. After a long pause, she answered. “Who is it?”

“It’s Kate.”

“Third floor. Come up.” That was the Claire I remembered from school. A little imperious, expecting others to do her bidding, which of course, we did. Intelligent and pretty, she had all the boys at her beck and call. Even back then, she’d been several inches taller and several pounds lighter than me, but I’d been willing to forgive her anything in return for her friendship— until the day she stole my boyfriend. He hadn’t exactly been my boyfriend, but at the age of seventeen, I’d thought I was in love with him. When I confided in Claire and asked for her help in getting him to invite me to the end-of-year school party, she’d promised she would. Then she’d turned up at the party with him. Unable to control my teenage emotions, I’d decided I hated her and would never trust anyone ever again. Over the years, the rage dissipated. I certainly didn’t hate Claire, but there remained a coolness between us. It was so subtle that I doubted that Leo and Ethan ever noticed.

A loud buzzer sounded as the lock on the front door clicked. I pushed it open and stepped into a narrow entry hall lined with black mailboxes. At one end, a long white marble stairway swept upwards like a snowy mountain slope. After a short climb, I found Claire waiting for me on a small landing on the third floor. When I’d last seen her, at her father’s funeral six weeks ago, she’d been pale and distressed, dressed in black, with her hair pulled back into a tight knot. Today, she looked amazing. Tight designer jeans, ballet flats, a green top that matched her eyes. Her red hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders.