The Da Vinci Cook

by Joanne Pence

  Paavo nodded. “Just to be absolutely sure,” he said, “I’d like to check the office’s phone records for the morning in question.”

  “That’s easy enough.” Ranker went to his desk and sat down behind it. “You don’t have to bother contacting the telephone company. We have our own PBX. It’ll only take a minute to pull off those records.” He phoned in the request. Soon the receptionist returned with a three-page printout.

  Jerome Ranker moved back to the sofa and spread the printout on the coffee table.

  “This is strange,” he said, running his finger down a column of incoming calls. “I had the impression from Meredith that the call came in from Mr. Piccoletti’s home, but he must have been using someone else’s phone. Nothing shows up on caller ID, although we do have a number of calls where the caller ID has been blocked or isn’t available.”

  Paavo studied the printout a moment. “May I take it?”

  Ranker gave his consent.

  Paavo folded it. “Where is Meredith Woring?”

  “She had to go out of town suddenly. To Los Angeles. I understand her mother is very ill, but I expect her back tomorrow.”

  Paavo thanked the man and found his own way out.

  Chapter 26

  San Pietro in Vincoli, or St. Peter in Chains, was a few blocks uphill from the Colosseum. From the street, a staircase led to a level, patio-like area in front of the church. As was common in Rome, quite a few people milled about on the stairs and near the entrance. Equally common was the Gypsy beggar sitting on the church’s doorsill.

  Angie often found that the easiest way to locate an unlocked entrance to a church was to look for the Gypsy sitting at it.

  The woman was dressed in a loose robelike tunic of dark materials, bound at the waist, with a long dark scarf covering her head and shoulders. Wide, billowing sleeves dropped low from her wrists.

  “Bella donna,” she cried as Angie attempted to step past her to enter the church. A thin, clawlike hand reached out in seeming desperation. The woman then went into a lamentation in Italian of how poor and miserable she was and how God would bless the “beautiful woman” if she’d give her some money.

  Cat marched past without a second glance.

  Angie knew she should learn to ignore the Gypsies the way her sister did. But this woman looked truly old, frail, and hungry. Angie took out her wallet and gave a euro to the woman, keeping the wallet in her hand. She’d been warned that often, while one hand might be outstretched in a pitiful request for money, if you stood close enough to hand some over, the full sleeves blocked your view of the Gypsy’s other hand, which was reaching into your purse to pluck out your money. The worst she’d ever heard was in Florence—the “flying baby” scam, in which a Gypsy woman would toss a lifelike baby doll at a tourist. When the tourist reached out to catch what she feared was a live child, another Gypsy would grab a purse, wallet, or camera, and run. At least Angie never had flying babies to contend with.

  The basilica was somewhat modest in size for a church in Rome, although it would appear humongous by the standards of most other cities. Against the wall to the right of the altar was a statue of Moses by Michelangelo. A crowd was there, dropping coins in a box so that lights would come on to illuminate the masterpiece, and “oohs” and “aahs” echoed through the building.

  No one paid much attention to the rectangular gold urn with a clear glass face that rested in front of the altar.

  Angie headed for it. Cat was already there.

  Draped inside were lengths of metal chains with large, rectangular links and several larger loops. Angie didn’t know anything about the history of the chains. She assumed they were from the time Peter was imprisoned by the Emperor Nero. The contrast between the plainness and cruel symbolism of the chains Peter wore and the richness of this church and others that now bore his name was stark.

  “Do they look anything like the chain you saw in Marcello’s house?” Angie moved in for a closer look.

  “They look exactly like it.” Cat sounded awe-stricken. “What if he did have the real thing? He called it priceless. Other than the Church wanting it for display, why would anyone want such a thing?”

  “Sometimes Satanists like to take religious items and defile them,” Angie said, a worried expression on her face.

  “Do you think that’s what we’re dealing with?” Cat asked, aghast.

  “Not really.” Angie placed her forearms on the railing surrounding the chains and leaned forward. “I can’t help but think that Rocco planned to sell them to someone rich and religious. It could be that he and an accomplice broke into Marcello’s home and stole the chain. Then Rocco decided not to share and killed the accomplice. He then flew to Italy to sell the chain and to escape the law.”

  “I’ve been thinking along those same lines,” Cat mused. “I didn’t want to admit it. To steal from his own brother! Although that would fit with the Rocco I knew as a kid. Marcello was the charmer, and Rocco was always jealous, and a bully. His mother used to lament, right in front of him, that she didn’t know what to do with such an obnoxious child.”

  “That wasn’t nice!” Angie said, horrified.

  “True, though.”

  “Speaking of the mother,” Angie said, “I think someone went to her to find out where Rocco went with the chain, and when she didn’t know or refused to tell, that person killed her.”

  “You’ve hung around Paavo too long.” Cat shuddered. “Still, it makes sense. This is no conversation for a church. I’m going to find a pay phone and see if I can reach Marcello on that phone number we found. No one answered when I called earlier. And I’ll check in with Mamma about Charles again.”

  Cat left, but Angie remained, studying the chains. Looking at them, a sadness descended on her as she contemplated Peter’s suffering for his faith.

  “This is yours, I believe.” A hand was outstretched, holding her iPaq.

  She turned to face the young priest from Da Vinci’s the night before. She straightened and took a step back. Why was he here? Had he followed her?

  Her gaze jumped from the iPaq to the door. The Gypsy was no longer there. “Thank you,” she said, taking her handheld. “I thought I was being so careful.”

  “It happens to the best of us.” He grinned a pleasant, albeit somewhat sorrowful smile. He was a slender man, about five-foot-ten. Gray eyes regarded her with frank curiosity through gold-rimmed glasses, yet he seemed almost anxious as he spoke. “I noticed her helping herself to it from your tote bag. I was going to give it right back, but you seemed to be in a very serious conversation with that blond woman.”

  “My sister, yes. Is this your church?” Angie sought some legitimate reason for his turning up this way.

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. His manner was plain and soft-spoken. He seemed to weigh each word before speaking. “I’m in Rome on sabbatical. Here to study and deepen my knowledge of the faith. I’m from Ohio. Father Daniel Tolliver. Where’s your home?”

  She introduced herself. To be a priest, he had to be at least in his late twenties, yet he looked quite boyish. His loneliness was evident, and more than a little homesickness as well. As they spoke, they walked outside the church so as not to disturb others.

  Standing on the patio, she told him about being from San Francisco, about Paavo and her engagement. He seemed genuinely interested. He told her about his own family—his parents and his three married sisters. He was the only one who was very religious in his family, and his parents didn’t understand him at all.

  Angie could see why. Looking at him, she thought he should be an all-American college student interested in girls, beer, and pickup baseball games with his friends. When he spoke of God, however, he did so with a burning intensity, a fire lighting his face, yet with a melancholy she didn’t understand. “I wanted to share my faith, to do my part to bring the whole world the gift of God’s love.” Somewhere in Rome, church bells rang. He listened, his gray eyes lifted toward the skyline, his lips thin yet
sensitive. When the bells stopped, he faced her again.

  “Have you?” she asked.

  He was clearly surprised by the question. At first he seemed about to brush it off. How easy it would be to say, “Of course,” and move on. But he hesitated, and then his shoulders sagged. “For some reason, that isn’t the way it turned out. Sometimes I’m not sure what I’m all about, as a matter of fact. That probably sounds strange to you.”

  “No,” Angie said, with more sincerity than he could know. The stories she could tell him! But even she had to admit there was a substantial difference between a problem with a vocation in the priesthood and one with finding work as a culinary aficionado. “It’s not strange at all, but I’m sorry to hear it.”

  A tortured sadness marred his features. He seemed about to say more, then changed his mind. Angie felt oddly drawn to him, and troubled that so much hope and promise was being destroyed.

  “Tell me, what brings you to Rome?” he asked with forced lightness.

  “I’m here to help my sister,” was her evasive answer.

  “Working in a restaurant?” His head cocked and she could see him struggle against a slight uplift at the corners of his mouth.

  She relieved him by laughing at herself. “We both are. It’s a long story,” she said. “The restaurant is owned by a friend.”

  He waited for an explanation—one she wasn’t about to give a stranger. She was ready to change the subject when Cat approached.

  “Here you are!” Irritation dripped from Cat’s voice. “I wish you’d told me you were leaving. I circled around inside three times looking for you!”

  “I may be to blame,” Father Daniel said, introducing himself, then turned back to Angie. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I enjoyed our conversation immensely.” He stepped back. “I’ll probably see you both again soon at Da Vinci’s. I eat there a lot. I’m staying at the rooming house right next door.” With that, he bid them good-bye and went back inside the church.

  Cat watched him go. “That was strange. What was he doing here? Why was he talking to you so seriously?”

  Angie had no answer, but she had the very same questions.

  Paavo was at his desk when Serefina called. A strange man had phoned her and demanded to speak to Cat. When she claimed to have no way to contact her daughter, he asked more questions. She kept saying “No capishe,” which was terrible Italian, but most Americans understood it.

  The caller grew angry, and his ensuing words were chilling. The next time Cat phoned, he said, if she ever wanted to see Charles again, she should leave a phone number where she could be reached.

  “I’ve convinced Salvatore to take our grandson to Disneyland for two nights,” Serefina explained. “I’m afraid for the boy. Salvatore still thinks Caterina is in Las Vegas with Angie, but he’s getting suspicious, especially because Charles doesn’t phone. He wants to know what’s wrong with the man. What kind of a father is he? I just keep my mouth shut.”

  “I’ll let the Hillsborough police know,” Paavo said. He didn’t let on how serious he was taking the call, but Serefina wasn’t fooled.

  “As soon as Salvatore is out of the house, I’m calling Joey and Rico,” she said. “You might remember them. Angie hired them as bodyguards when you two first met. This has to be taken care of before Salvatore comes back home, or I’m going to have to tell him everything. I’m doing all I can, sending people around to find out exactly what’s going on, but they’re having some trouble. Still, I know the Piccolettis. I know what they could be up to.”

  The last thing he needed was to have Angie’s mother get in the middle of this investigation. “Serefina, leave it up to the cops.”

  “Umm-hmm.” Serefina’s inflection told him she’d do anything but. “I’m getting close to something, I think. When I’m sure, I’ll let you know.”

  “Getting close?” That worried him. “Close to what? Tell me.”

  “You work on getting Angie back. I’ll work on the Piccolettis. Ciao.”

  Chapter 27

  One scenario after the other played itself out in Cat’s mind as she reached the Via dei Fori Imperiali. The sun beat down relentlessly on the wide, car-clogged, nearly treeless street. This had been the heart of ancient Rome. To the south, the Colosseum, a model for modern day sports arenas, once sat 50,000 spectators to witness the victorious and the vanquished. Now it was a surreal mix of muscular men dressed up like gladiators for picture takers, cars zipping by at great speed, and the ruined structure itself filled with visitors sensing the presence of those who had lived and died there centuries ago.

  Directly across the street was the Roman Forum, where Caesar and Mark Anthony once walked, the edifice now nothing but ruins.

  Cat headed northward, toward the monument to Victor Emanuele, the first king of a united Italy—which Romans mockingly say looks like a wedding cake. Past the monument, Rome became a city filled with shops and businesses. It had a no-nonsense ambience as grim-faced, rather irritated-looking Italians rushed about on foot or in cars that honked incessantly and zigzagged around befuddled tourists, many of whom seemed petrified by the crisscrossing streets, the traffic, and the noise. They often stood on street corners, maps open, trying to make some sense out of where they were and which way they should be going.

  Cat didn’t need a map. She simply followed Angie. That had been her first mistake, she thought. Disgust filled her.

  Logic had always been her strong point, and she’d been relying far too much on her impetuous sister. Angie had experience in criminal matters, and she had assumed that might help. She’d been wrong. Also, if she were making excuses for herself—which she was—it was unnerving to be fired, to find a body in a kitchen, and then to learn you were suspected not only of theft but also murder!

  Enough with the excuses. She was in charge now. She would handle this herself, and leave Angie out of it.

  She’d reached Marcello earlier by phone and arranged a meeting. She and Angie were heading there now. Her plan was to send Angie off and talk to him alone.

  Angie kept giving her questioning glances as they wended their way through the ancient city, but she stayed silent. Thank God for small favors, Cat thought. Some of the time—no, most of the time—her sister’s constant flow of ideas and chatter made her want to shove Angie into the nearest fountain.

  Speaking of fountains, after a turn down the Via delle Muratte, they reached the Trevi of “Three Coins in the . . .” fame. In a city filled with fountains, this one, with its large marble sculpture of Neptune riding a shell and pulled by sea horses, was the largest. People tossed coins in it hoping that doing so would ensure a return to Rome one day—or hoping to coldcock obnoxious tourists singing the theme song from the old movie. The fountain, nevertheless, was beautiful by day, and spectacular when lit up at night.

  “Is this the place?” Angie asked, interrupting Cat’s thoughts.

  “Yes. It’s a good spot to meet. There are a lot of people around. He felt it’s safe here for both of us.”

  Considering that Angie had a long talk with Marcello at Da Vinci’s, his sudden desire for many people around made no sense to her. “I don’t know about this,” she murmured, then took hold of Cat’s elbow. “Don’t look now, but isn’t that the guy with the goatee who was following us once before?”

  Cat turned in the direction Angie had been looking. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “I said . . . ” It was too late. Angie searched the area. If it had been him, he was gone now. Maybe goatees were suddenly very popular in Italy and it wasn’t actually the same guy popping up like a jack-in-the-box all over Rome. “This crowd makes me nervous,” she said, and inched closer to her sister.

  Cat ignored her concerns. “Marcello’s here somewhere. He agreed to meet, and I’m not leaving until I find him.”

  “Maybe something happened that scared him away,” Angie said.

  “Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to me while you’re nearby. I didn’t t
ell him you’d be coming.”

  Angie looked offended. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

  “Perhaps we have some personal things to discuss,” Cat said indignantly.

  “Like?”

  “Like none of your business! Now, go throw coins in the fountain. I’m going to look for Marcello on my own.”

  “Just stay away from goateed men!” Angie warned as she went one way and Cat the other.

  Not three minutes later, Cat felt a tug on her arm. Instead of Marcello, it was Angie again. “What’s wrong with you? I said, go away!”

  Angie sidled up close and whispered, “Someone’s watching us.”

  “Are you seeing goateed men again?” Cat was beside herself. “Do you have a beard fixation?”

  “I’m not seeing things! And this guy doesn’t have a goatee. He has a green cap, and he keeps watching us.”

  “Great. Now you’re seeing leprechauns! This is Italy, not Ireland. Leave me alone.”

  “He’s standing in front of the Tazza D’Oro coffee shop.” She held Cat’s arm and slowly the two turned as if they were on a merry-go-round. “See him yet?”

  “I don’t . . . oh! Yes. He’s there.” Stricken, Cat averted her eyes and looked at Angie. “He is watching us!”

  “Told you! Let’s get out of here.”

  “But Marcello . . . ” Cat scanned the crowd.

  “Consider that he just stood you up.” Angie took Cat’s hand and plunged down a narrow, cobbled side street. A few umbrella-covered tables stood outside shops with panini, pizza, and cappuccino.