The Da Vinci Cook

by Joanne Pence

  Father Daniel eased her onto the chair he’d been sitting on.

  Seeing Cat’s pale, troubled expression, Angie was sorry for yelling, but at the same time she wanted to shake her sister. “You were with Marcello, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Cat kicked off her shoes and rubbed her feet.

  Angie gawked at her shredded nylons. “That animal!”

  “As if!” Cat looked appalled and disgusted. “I did this to myself.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Father Daniel asked, sliding another chair in place for himself.

  Cat shook her head, then gave them both a quick rundown of her harrowing escape and the gun battle she ran from. “They’re probably all in jail. Or dead!” Her voice choked as she finished her story. And Angie’s latte. “It might have been the police who were breaking in—I have no idea.”

  Cat’s face filled with sorrow and something more. “I told him about his mother.”

  “Oh dear,” was Angie’s only comment.

  “He didn’t take it well, to put it mildly. He swore revenge, but he wouldn’t say against who. And, as he was helping me get out of the house, he gave me this.” She placed her hand on the leather box.

  “That can’t be what I think it is,” Angie said, but one look at Cat’s face confirmed her suspicion. “Did he have it all along? Marcello, I mean, not the elusive Rocco. Sometimes I wonder if Rocco played any part in this at all.”

  Cat shook her head. “I wish I knew what was real and what was a lie.”

  Daniel stood, his gaze never leaving the box. “That isn’t . . . ”

  Cat turned the clasp and lifted the lid. Inside was a rusty iron chain, twisted round and round like the coils on a snail’s shell. Two large loops were on the ends.

  “It’s just a plain old chain.” Father Daniel sounded disappointed as he dropped back into his chair.

  The metal wasn’t smooth, but was pitted and scored by time. Or perhaps when it was made, no one bothered to smooth the iron used on prisoners. As Angie looked at the large, rectangular links so similar in size and shape to the chains she’d seen displayed in San Pietro in Vincoli, her heart began to beat heavily.

  “It’s the chain I saw in Marcello’s house,” Caterina said.

  “Isn’t it what you expected, Father?” Angie asked, seeing his still crossed brows.

  “Not at all,” he murmured.

  She touched the chain with just a couple of fingers. “I find it remarkable.” A small symbol was chiseled into an end link. “What’s this?”

  Father Daniel studied the link. “It . . . it’s Aramaic.” His voice slightly quivered. “It’s a symbol used by the earliest Christians for Peter. It stands for ‘Cephas,’ which St. Paul and the early Christians in Rome called Peter. They got it from the Aramaic word kephas or kipha, for ‘rock.’ Christ said Peter would be the rock upon which his Church was built. The name Peter comes from ‘Petros,’ which is the Latin equivalent.”

  Angie slipped her hand under a few of the links and lifted. It was heavy, deceptively so. She imagined what an effort it would be to move while bound with these chains.

  “That means it must have touched St. Peter.”

  “Not necessarily,” Father Daniel said. “It could also simply mean it was forged by someone whose name started with a K. The Aramaic equivalent of Kevin the Ironworker.”

  Angie was shocked. “Don’t you feel anything special in its presence?”

  “No,” he replied glumly.

  “That’s strange.” She touched the chain again. “Because I do. Think about it! This chain, something I can touch, reminds me that Simon Peter was here in Rome. He walked over the same land as we walk today. He was just a simple man, a fisherman. He felt pain and fear when he was captured. Felt the weight of a chain binding him—even if not this one. I’m reminded that Peter was no different from you and me, and I can’t help but think of how horribly he suffered.”

  He stared at her with envy. “I wish I could find even a smidgen of that feeling.”

  “Could it be that you’re searching too hard?”

  His eyes widened, almost stricken, as he contemplated her words.

  “You’ve been talking to Maria way too much,” Cat said to Angie, referring to their third sister. “I don’t feel anything either, but then, I’ve never been one for woo-woo of any kind. What I want to know is where Marcello got this. I’ve been thinking about the archeologists who eat at Da Vinci’s. The father is supposed to be friends with Marcello. What if they found the chain and worked out a deal together?”

  “You know them, too, don’t you, Father?” Angie prodded.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “You followed them,” she said.

  “Me? No.” He shook his head.

  “I saw you. Last night,” she insisted.

  “I take a walk every night,” he said, looking at her strangely. “I didn’t follow anybody.” He lightly ran his fingertips over the chain, then shook his head with dejection before facing Cat. “Marcello gave it to you for safekeeping. What does he intend to do with it? I can take it—”

  “No!” Cat put the chain back in the box and shut it. “I’ll handle it.” She headed upstairs, clutching the box tight.

  “Cat, wait!” Angie called, but her sister didn’t listen.

  She walked with Daniel to the door. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Daniel’s face darkened. “She’s upset. Go to her. We’ll come up with something tomorrow. But whatever else you do—just in case—keep the chain safe. It’s in your hands now.” He stared glumly at the stairs Cat had climbed. “God truly does work in mysterious ways.”

  Angie found Cat sitting up on the bed, pillows against her back, the leather box on her lap. “We’ve got the chain now,” Cat said. “We can go back home.”

  “That’s what I was hoping to hear!” Angie said, crossing to the window. “Good-bye, Rome!”

  Did something just move on the far side of the street? She blinked and stared. It might have been a passerby who’d stopped. Or someone watching . . .

  She backed away from the window. “Didn’t Marcello think you’d been followed to his house?”

  “Yes.” Angie’s stark expression made Cat suddenly wary.

  “What if someone followed you back here?” Angie whispered.

  Cat scrambled to her feet. “My God, you’re right. We’ve got to get out. Maybe the American embassy?”

  “It’s probably locked up for the night. Security guards won’t let us in.”

  “A hotel?”

  “Remember how hard it was to find a vacant one last time?”

  “The airport?”

  “We don’t have our passports.”

  Exasperated, Cat said, “What then?”

  Angie smiled. “A place no one will talk about.”

  Chapter 31

  “What do you mean, you want to hide here? You’re crazy!” Cousin Giulio’s arms were upraised and gyrating like an Italian stereotype as he yelled at them. He was in his sixties, with grizzled gray hair and a hawklike nose. The house, on the outskirts of Rome near the catacombs, was large and quite nice. They stood in the front courtyard under a lemon tree, and hadn’t been invited in.

  Cat had tried to visit him a couple of years earlier, when she and Charles were in Rome. It hadn’t worked.

  The fact that Giulio was awakened at five in the morning and had to pay the taxi driver because Cat and Angie didn’t have enough money wasn’t making this visit any more propitious than the last.

  Not even his medium-sized brown and white dog liked them. It barked incessantly, despite Angie’s best attempts at making friends. When it bared its teeth at her, she stopped trying.

  “How can you turn us away?” Cat shrieked right back, making her voice easily heard even over the dog’s continuous woofs. “We’re your cousins! Family!”

  He clasped his hands in prayer and looked toward the still-dark sky. “My grandmother is spinning in her grave!” He flung h
is arms wide and bellowed, “Why does she keep pestering me, this American cousin? Why doesn’t she leave me in peace?”

  “Believe me,” Cat said with disgust, “it’s not by choice!”

  He glared at her. “You aren’t welcome here!” He glanced down at the dog. “Be quiet, Luciano! They’re leaving.”

  The dog wouldn’t stop barking. It now ran in circles.

  “Fine!” Cat’s voice boomed as she turned toward the gate. “But if we get killed, you’ll have to explain it to our parents. You think family relations are bad now, just wait!”

  “What’s wrong with you two?” Angie took hold of Cat’s jacket, stopping her. Much as she didn’t like what was going on, she liked the idea of being out in the street even less. “How can things be bad between our families when no one ever talks about Cousin Giulio?”

  The dog barked even more hysterically.

  “There!” he yelled back. “What did I tell you! You only want to use me. No wonder our families don’t speak.”

  “Why don’t they?” Angie found herself shouting to be heard.

  “Your grandmother was a hateful woman,” Giulio proclaimed loudly. “She insulted her sister, my grandmother. She was never forgiven. We swore a blood oath on my grandmother’s dying day that we would never forget or forgive.”

  “Why?” Angie curved her hands around her ears, trying to hear.

  “It had to do with your grandfather,” Giulio hollered. “He courted both sisters. Your grandmother married him.”

  Angie cringed. Sisters. It all made sense now.

  The dog had barked so much it was losing its voice. Its deep woof became a squeaky weef. Thank God, Angie thought. Her ears were ringing.

  “Isn’t it time we got over it?” Angie was beside herself now. “It happened ages ago. ”

  Giulio proudly lifted his chin. “For an American, yes. For an Italian, it was only yesterday.”

  “But they’re all dead!” Angie screeched.

  Giulio rolled his eyes at that, then turned to Cat. “Who are these people after you?”

  “We don’t know,” Cat answered. “All we know is we don’t want them to catch up with us.”

  “What do they want?” he asked.

  Cat and Angie glanced at each other. “We don’t know that either,” Angie said. “That’s what makes it all so scary.”

  His brows crossed skeptically. “Sure, you don’t. You think I believe you? My grandmother was right about your family!”

  “Who cares?” Disgust dripped from Cat’s voice.

  Weeeeef! The dog sounded as if he was in pain.

  So was Angie—in pain from all this family nonsense. She regarded Giulio with great unhappiness. “Do you know anywhere we could hide? Could you lend us some money for a room? We’re running low.”

  “Do you know how expensive rooms are in Rome?” he asked. “Nobody but tourists can afford them! When we had lira I was a rich man. Now that we have the euro, I’m poor. That euro is the ruin of us all! It’s probably an American plot!”

  “Do you have a friend, or anyone, to help us?” Angie pleaded.

  “Mamma mia! I can’t take it!” He threw up his hands. “I have a room over the garage that I rent. It’s vacant until Monday, when my new tenant moves in. I must paint and clean it up. You can stay there one night. One night! You hear me?”

  “That’s fine,” Angie said, “because tomorrow, as soon as we can get our passports back, we’re going home.”

  Although bone-tired after what felt like the longest day ever, Angie couldn’t sleep, unable to convince herself that she had nothing to worry about.

  A rattling sound caught her attention. She sat up. The dog, Luciano, began to bark even though he hadn’t regained his voice. He sounded as if he was gargling.

  The rattles seemed to be coming from the front door to the above-garage studio.

  Angie reached over to Cat’s side of the bed and shook her. “Stay quiet! Someone’s outside!” she whispered. “Get dressed, Cat! Fast. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Maybe it’s Giulio,” Cat said hopefully, immediately awake.

  “Maybe it’s someone who followed us here!”

  “My nerves can’t take much more of this,” Cat whispered. She quickly pulled on her T-shirt, skirt, pumps, and put on her thick glasses. “If anyone takes a picture of me this way, they could blackmail me with it for the rest of my life!”

  “Stop whining and grab your things,” Angie said. “Maybe we can sneak back to Giulio’s house and he’ll protect us.”

  “Fat chance.” Cat took the tote and ran into the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting my contact lenses. I can’t go around with glasses! Where’s the wetting solution?”

  “Will you hurry! You can put your lenses in later!” Angie yanked Cat away from the toiletries. She’d put on her clothes and was ready to run.

  They crept to the door, listened, and when they heard nothing, snuck out. Cat pushed her glasses higher on her nose. The two tiptoed away from the garage and were heading for the main house when two men appeared in front of them, blocking their way. One was huge, the other short.

  The men froze, gaping in almost as much surprise as the women.

  “Stooopah!” the smaller man cried in fractured English. The big one raised a crowbar high and started toward them.

  Angie and Cat screamed, turned and ran toward the backyard, hoping to find someplace to hide. The men charged after them.

  Almost immediately they reached the fence. They screeched to a halt, trapped.

  “Throw it!” Angie whispered to Cat.

  “Are you crazy?” Cat whispered back.

  Angie didn’t have time to explain. She reached into Cat’s tote and took out the black box. She shook it so the two goons could hear it rattle. “Is this what you want?”

  “Don’t let them have it!” Cat shrieked, grasping wildly for the box.

  Angie flung it as hard as she could out over the fence.

  The flat box spun like a Frisbee, then plummeted down, landing in a neighbor’s clump of blackberry bushes.

  As Cat gaped in horror at her sister, the men looked from the women to the box, trying to decide which to go after.

  Richie Amalfi showed up at Paavo’s door that evening. Why not? Paavo thought. Just about everyone else in the Amalfi family had. Paavo was starting to feel as if he lived at Grand Central Station.

  Angie’s cousin Richie was the Amalfis’ “go-to guy” —the one who could always be counted on to find out the who, what, when, where, and why of anything happening on the wrong side of the law. As far as Paavo could tell, Richie walked a narrow line between what was legal and what was not, and somehow managed to stay out of jail. Most of the time, he was up on a balance beam, but sometimes the beam seemed to shrink to a tightrope. A very thin, bouncing tightrope.

  “Serefina sent me over,” Richie said. He was in his forties, about five-ten, husky, with wavy black hair that was worrisomely thin at the crown. “There’s someplace I gotta take you.”

  “Now?” Paavo asked.

  “Serefina says.” His dark eyes had a hang-dog look. “I guess Angie’s at it again.”

  Paavo tucked his gun into his shoulder holster and put on a jacket. “She tries to say it was Cat’s idea.”

  Richie snickered. “I can’t see Cat putting herself in danger. That idea has Angie’s fingerprints all over it.”

  Paavo just shook his head as he got into Richie’s Cadillac.

  “She’s always been that way,” Richie added, as if that might be some consolation.

  “I hate that she’s out of reach.” Paavo shuddered.

  Richie started the car, and then, hands on the wheel, he faced Paavo, his dark eyes sympathetic. “You want to stop somewhere for a beer or something first?”

  “I’m okay.” Paavo’s mouth was a thin, tense line. “I want to see what Serefina’s set up this time.”

  Richie headed down Gear
y Boulevard. “Serefina came up with this latest after learning that Marcello’s dead. With the chain of St. Peter gone, she put two and two together, and wants us to meet a good friend of hers. He’ll help us.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Alfonse Lorentino. You might know him as Alfonse Cement.”

  Paavo’s head snapped toward Richie. “Serefina is friends with Al Cement?”

  “Sounds like you know him. Or know of him.” Richie gave a toothy grin. “He controls all the cement in the Bay Area. If you want anything built, you gotta go to Alfonse Cement, ’cause if you don’t, you might not get good quality cement in your foundation and then you know what happens.”

  Paavo’s jaw tightened. “The building comes down.” He’d heard more than that about Alfonse Cement’s exploits, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Richie smiled. “Exactly. It’s a sad, sad thing when people don’t go through Alfonse Cement. Serefina phoned him and told him what’s going on. He thinks Angie’s great. She’s his favorite of all Serefina’s girls. He’ll help us.”

  Richie led Paavo to a nice home in the Marina district. An elderly woman opened the door, greeted Richie with a kiss and a squeeze of his cheeks, and frowned at Paavo. Instead of leading them up into the house, she took them to a room off the garage. It had a plush sofa, easy chair, big screen TV, Bose radio, and small wet bar.

  A white-haired man, his dark olive skin crisscrossed with wrinkles, sat on the sofa and peered at them through eyes like thin slits as they entered.

  Richie made introductions.

  “I can tell you some stuff, if you want,” Alfonse said. Under the slits of eyes were three layers of bags. “But it’s all just hearsay.”

  “That’s fine,” Paavo said.

  He lifted a gnarled forefinger. “I’m telling you what I heard and nothing more. Don’t plan on me coming down to court and testifying. That ain’t gonna happen in this lifetime or any other. Anyway, not even you coppers use hearsay these days, do you? That law hasn’t changed with all this Piracy Act shit, has it?”

  Paavo thought a moment. “You mean Patriot Act?”