The Da Vinci Cook

by Joanne Pence

  They huddled together as Cat opened her wallet. “Seventy dollars and a couple dollars in coins. Plus, I always carry emergency money.” She slid some folded cash halfway out from under her driver’s license. “Two hundred dollars in case ATMs break down.”

  “Very smart,” Angie said as she went through her own wallet. She had a $153. “Four hundred twenty-three dollars, plus the two hundred euros we got from the ATM, minus the cost of the train tickets. That’s a fortune. We’ll be just fine.” She looked at the metro map and pointed to the Ottaviano station. “I think it’s time for dinner, don’t you?”

  “Dinner?” Cat looked with dismay from the map to the turnstiles that led to grimy, graffiti-filled boarding areas.

  The doorbell rang. Paavo tightened the sash on his bathrobe and went to answer it. After Serefina’s call, he put on coffee, then showered and shaved to get ready to go to Homicide.

  Nobody ever came to his house except Angie. Unless—a great possibility entered his mind—Angie had come to her senses and taken a plane home. He flung open the door.

  Angie’s eldest sister, Bianca, stood on the porch. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “I brought you some fresh muffins for breakfast.” She held up a pastry bag.

  Chubby, in her forties, with straight chin-length brown hair cut in the same practical bob that she’d probably worn for the past twenty years, Bianca was the most perennially good-natured person Paavo had ever met. Sometimes, he had to admit, it was really hard to take. Warm, kind, and motherly, she was completely uninterested in politics, religion, world health, or even fashion—her clothes were as plain and practical as her hairdo. The only thing she seemed to genuinely care about her was family.

  At least with the Amalfis she was never bored.

  “What a surprise,” Paavo said, finding his voice. “Come in. I guess you’re here to ask about your sisters.”

  “I can’t begin to understand what’s going on!” She gave him the muffins, and immediately began fluffing the pillows on his sofa. Paavo’s yellow tabby, Hercules, awoke with a start from his favorite corner. Back arched, tail fluffed, he marched from the room in a huff. “Mamma’s so worried about the girls she can hardly talk. They’re chasing a potential murderer! My God! Anyway, Mamma sent me here to take you to Flora Piccoletti’s house.”

  “She could have just phoned with the address,” he managed, the bag of muffins in hand.

  “She wanted to be sure. And she was afraid Papa might get suspicious if she kept having secret phone calls. She’s already had a bunch of them. We all have to be sure Papa doesn’t hear about this.” Bianca stacked the magazines on his coffee table and began gathering up the newspapers. “Do you save the crosswords?”

  “Uh, no,” he said.

  “Good.” She lifted the papers. “Where’s your newsprint recycle bin?” Everybody in San Francisco had several recycle bins of varying kinds. It was the only way to get garbage picked up without going through the third degree.

  He took the papers from her. “You don’t have to do this.”

  She took the papers back. “It’s nothing. I enjoy it. Besides, it helps take my mind off . . . ” Her eyes turned teary. “What in heaven’s name were they thinking? If anything happens to them . . . ” She bustled to the kitchen to find the newspaper stacks on her own. “I can understand Angie, but Cat?”

  Paavo followed her, and couldn’t help cringing at the truth of her last words. “Coffee?”

  “Sounds good. And I bought enough muffins for both of us. You get ready to go. I’ll take care of everything here.”

  Muffins had all the appeal of sawdust to Paavo under the circumstances. He escaped to his bedroom. Once dressed, he called Yosh to fill him in.

  “You’re taking a civilian with you?” Yosh asked.

  “It’ll be okay. She’s calm and mature.” Paavo peeked into the kitchen, where Bianca was at the moment washing down the outside of his refrigerator. He hadn’t even known that the outsides of refrigerators were supposed to be washed. He sucked in his breath. “Anyway, their mothers are friends. Having someone Flora Piccoletti knows with me when I question her about her two sons will be a good thing.”

  “You may be right. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” He gently took the Formula 409 out of Bianca’s hands as she was about to shoot it at his light switches. In this old house, she’d probably cause a short.

  “I see finger marks,” she explained.

  “They’re part of history.” He understood all this hubbub was a reaction to being upset. He led her to a kitchen chair. “Coffee and muffins await.”

  Chapter 10

  “Ecco Da Vinci.” The cab driver pointed to a restaurant as he double-parked.

  Angie thanked the driver and paid him, including a generous tip. Unsure which way to go after their metro ride to the northwest part of Rome, near the Vatican, they found a driver who knew the restaurant. It was on the Via Porta Cavalleggeri, facing the high, yellow-beige walls of Vatican City. The street was busy with shops—clothes, handbags, jewelry, appliances, gelato, a farmacia, a deli—and the small, unimposing restaurant owned by Marcello Piccoletti: Ristorante Da Vinci.

  Inside, the dining room was fairly dark, the walls a dingy off-white, with dark wood-stained trim around the doors and windows. Wooden tables and chairs were situated close together in a way that would barely be tolerated in the U.S.

  They were greeted by a short, round man with a bald head and wide, black mustache. “Buona sera,” he said in greeting, and showed them to a table.

  Cat immediately requested a bottle of his best merlot. The menu was long, but Angie saw that it was basically different variations of basic food. For the primo, there were a variety of pasta noodles with an equal variety of toppings, a number of risotto dishes, and several kinds of zuppa. The secondo, or entrée, had far fewer choices of meat or fish. The menu listed several rather simple antipasto dishes which came, as the name implied, before the pasta. Salads, small and with less variety, were generally served after the entrée to clear the palate—except in restaurants that catered to tourists, where they were served early to be eaten in whatever order the customer preferred.

  They ordered an antipasto of caprese—tomatoes with mozzarella, basil, and spices—a primo of porcini mushroom risotto for Cat, and linguine with pancetta for Angie. As their secondo, both chose the day’s special of veal scaloppine with green olives. For dessert, they decided on one that was typically Italian—sliced melon and walnuts, with a demitasse of espresso.

  “We made it,” Angie said as they clinked their wineglasses together. They both took long sips. Angie could all but feel the drink helping her relax for the first time in twenty-four hours.

  “I can’t believe we’re here,” Cat said. She looked around. “Unfortunately, I don’t see Marcello. I was hoping he’d come out to say hello. He’d better be here.”

  “Let’s eat a bit before we ask about him,” Angie said. She didn’t want disappointment to color their meal or dampen her optimism about this adventure. Who could be anything but optimistic in Rome?

  They quietly enjoyed their antipasto and primo.

  In the restaurant, a family with a couple of children were settling in at one table, and near them an elderly couple were just leaving. Two men who looked like they might be father and son were huddled together having an intense conversation, and sitting alone was a young priest. He was blond and wore glasses with thin gold rims. His long, narrow face was intriguing enough to catch Angie’s attention, as it bore a troubled, almost moody, demeanor.

  She was speculating on what the problem might be when the waiter, the same rotund man who had seated them, brought out their veal scaloppine.

  Angie nodded at Cat, who nodded back.

  “The linguine and risotto were excellent,” Angie said to the waiter. “I’m Angelina Amalfi and this is my sister, Caterina Swenson.”

  He stood as if at attention. “I am Bruno Montecatini.” He patted his bulbous stomach. �
�I am the maitre d’ of this dining room.”

  Cat spoke up. “We are friends with Signore Piccoletti. Is he here this evening?”

  Montecatini looked surprised. “Signore Piccoletti?” he repeated, confused.

  Cat and Angie glanced at each other. “Marcello Piccoletti,” Cat said. “The owner.”

  “Ah!” The maitre d’ said. “I believe he’s in his summer home in San Francisco.”

  Cat cocked her head. “That’s where we’re from.” Her voice was completely matter-of-fact. “He just left there for Rome. Please tell him we’re looking for him.”

  “I will do so . . . if I see him,” the man said.

  “And what about his brother, Rocco?” Angie asked casually.

  “Rocco?” Montecatini again seemed uncomfortable with the question. “I have never met his brother. Excuse me, please.”

  With that, his stubby legs took him away quickly. As Angie watched him go, something made her glance at the other diners. The family paid no attention, but both the priest and the father and son were watching. All three men looked away when her eyes met theirs.

  “That was strange,” Cat whispered to Angie, drawing back her attention. “Everyone in San Francisco thinks he’s here—and here, they think he’s there. I don’t like it. Why didn’t he tell me about this?”

  “All right.” Angie faced her sister squarely. “Just what is going on between you and Marcello?”

  Cat’s wide-eyed innocence was completely fake. “When I was a kid, I’d go to his house with Mamma and play with his little sister, Josie. I knew the whole family, but then we lost touch for nearly thirty years.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Angie’s tone was firm.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cat filled her mouth with veal and mushroom.

  “I think you do,” Angie argued. “You said he wouldn’t go to Italy without telling you. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cat swallowed. “I don’t like what you’re implying! Marcello is hardly my type. What about Charles? Damn! I’d better call him soon.”

  Angie was developing some definite ideas about Cat and Marcello, but a restaurant was hardly the place to confront her sister.

  “We’ve been so hung up on finding Marcello,” Angie said after a while, “that we’ve forgotten what started all this today—or I should say yesterday, since we lost a day traveling.”

  “It feels like we lost a month,” Cat lamented. She’d practically cleaned her plate. Notwithstanding the drab decor, the food was quite good.

  “It began with someone, presumably Marcello, accusing you of stealing from his house.”

  “Yes. Or, I should say, that’s what the office manager, Meredith Woring, claimed was said.” Cat grimaced. “What a bitch! The whole thing is ridiculous!”

  “Of course it is. But why would Marcello, or anyone, have said such a thing? And it couldn’t have been Marcello, since he was already in Italy.”

  “Was he?” Cat wore a thoughtful frown. “The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it was Marcello I followed. He might have used Rocco’s passport if the two still look alike. And keep in mind, a passport is good for ten years, so the photo could be an old one. But why would Marcello travel using Rocco’s identification? That doesn’t make sense either!”

  Just then the scraping of chairs caught Angie’s attention. The father and son got up to leave and were heading for the door when the son abruptly turned toward the kitchen. Bruno Montecatini met him in the doorway and the two men shook hands before the son followed his father out.

  Angie thought he must have really liked the meal until she saw the waiter surreptitiously slip something into his pocket. Just what was going on here?

  “How does that idea strike you, Angie?” Cat repeated. “That Marcello used Rocco’s identification.”

  “That’s as good as anything,” Angie admitted, puzzling over the strange interplay she’d witnessed. “Even if it was Marcello you followed, why would he have called Meredith with such an accusation? Why lie and say you stole the chain? Especially if he had it himself.”

  “It’s illogical!” There were few things Cat hated more than lack of logic. “I believe whoever did it wanted me fired. For all I know, Meredith made the whole story up so she could sell Marcello’s house herself and get my commission! On a five and a half million dollar sale, it could be big enough to kill over.”

  “You really think she made it up?”

  “I guess . . . not really,” Cat said wearily. “One of the owners, Jerome Ranker, was in the office when she fired me, and I went to him. He said Meredith was overreacting, to go home and try not to think about it. He promised to talk to her, and he was sure I’d get back my job and good name soon.”

  “But you didn’t go home,” Angie prodded.

  Cat flushed. “No.”

  Angie remained silent as their dessert was served. “Have you ever seen the chain you’re supposed to have taken?”

  Cat nodded as she speared a melon. “Yes. It’s about a foot and a half long, with rusted metal links and large loops at the ends for wrists or ankles. It looks like something you’d find in a junkyard, except that Marcello kept it in a black leather box.”

  “The box you saw him carry as he ran from the house.”

  “I think so,” Cat admitted.

  Angie couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “You think? First you guessed it was Marcello, and now you only guess it was the box? What’s going on here?”

  “Well, it’s a good guess because . . . ” Cat put down her fork.

  Angie waited. “Because?”

  Cat explained that she’d looked in Marcello’s bedroom safe and the chains were gone.

  “Are you telling me you know the combination to his safe?” Angie could hardly believe it. “Is he aware of that? No wonder he thinks you stole it!”

  Cat archly lifted her eyebrows. “No, he doesn’t know that I know. In any event, as a realtor, I am thorough.”

  And as a sister, Angie knew when Cat was lying through her teeth.

  With each question, the tension between them increased.

  It was time to go. As they paid for the meal, Angie was surprised to see that the tables around them were now empty.

  They were the last to leave that night.

  Chapter 11

  Paavo drove Bianca to Flora Piccoletti’s house in his Corvette. Angie had given it to him for Christmas because she was worried about the old car he’d been driving. He’d once mentioned that, years ago, he enjoyed watching the TV show Miami Vice, in which Don Johnson played a cop who drove a Corvette—rather ridiculous in hindsight. He guessed those comments stayed with Angie. When he let himself think about the car, it seemed an awful indulgence. Most of the time, though, he simply enjoyed it.

  Bianca was still fussing, even as she sat in the car. She took out a Kleenex and used it to shine the knobs on the heater and radio controls. Paavo half expected her to start washing windows—the outside ones. He asked her about Flora Piccoletti, hoping to distract her.

  Flora was in her late seventies and in good health. The family was large, but not close, and she had lived very much cut off from the others since her favorite sister became afflicted with dementia. No one knew what Flora’s sons were up to, and the daughter, Josie, had been estranged from her mother for years.

  “She’s a tough old thing,” Bianca said. “She and Mamma were friends years back, but then she got more and more sour about the world. Mamma found her tiresome, especially as Papa’s money grew. Flora was always bitter that her husband died before he became rich. I think she expected her children to make it up to her.”

  “Did they?”

  Bianca opened his glove compartment and started to stack the papers inside it neatly—maps on the bottom, registration next, gas card receipts on top. “I never heard that they did. In fact, I think they all pretty much took off and left Flora on her own. Mamma hasn’t heard from her in years, but the
n, leopards don’t change their spots, do they?”

  “No,” Paavo said, “I guess not.”

  “Do you need to keep two-month-old receipts?”

  He reached over and shut the glove box. “Leave them.”

  She folded her hands and stared out the side window. “You’re worried about Angie, aren’t you?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” he asked. “She’s following someone who well may be a murderer. It’s insane. Sometimes, I don’t understand your sister at all.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Bianca said. “She knows what she’s doing, and she’d never take an unnecessary chance. Besides, Cat is with her.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” Paavo said.

  “I’m glad.” Bianca smiled, and Paavo wondered if she really didn’t understand sarcasm. “Are you eating all right? Getting enough sleep?” She wrapped a fresh Kleenex around her forefinger, dabbed spit on it, and began to rub it along the seam where the dash and windshield met—that little groove where dust and dirt could collect and was impossible to get out short of using a toothbrush. She used a fingernail.

  Paavo drove faster.

  “Angie said she really likes your little house, by the way,” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to get out some infinitesimal grit that lodged in the groove.

  “Once we’re married, we’ll have to move,” Paavo said. “My place isn’t big or modern enough for Angie.”

  “When she was a little girl, she loved to make cute little cardboard houses for her dolls. For herself, she’d draw chalk marks as her ‘house’ out on the sidewalk or in our backyard. I guess that’s what came of living with four older sisters and always sharing a bedroom. She wanted her own space.”

  He thought about what Bianca had told him. “Are you saying she might be happy simply moving into my place?”

  Bianca came him a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Flora Piccoletti’s home was on Vallejo between Polk and Larkin, at the foot of Russian Hill. It consisted of two flats over a garage. They walked up the stairs and looked at the large brass numbers on the doors. Paavo rang the doorbell. Bianca stood smoothing her jacket and picking off minuscule pieces of lint.