Charmer's Death (Temptation in Florence Book 2)

by boeker, beate

  She nodded. “You do that. I'll get you a cup of coffee.”

  Stefano went past Anne through the door into the back office area. He crossed a small office with white walls and attractive wall hangings made of colorful brocade, then opened the door to another office behind. The floor was covered ankle deep with files. In the middle of the chaos, his friend Peter sat behind a desk and munched an apple. He jumped up. “Stefano! I've not seen you for ages. How is your sax?” His Italian still held a faint British note.

  Garini smiled. “I don't have enough time to play. And your trumpet?”

  “Ditto.” Peter shrugged. “With Linda, we have less time than ever.”

  “I can imagine.” Garini eyed a chair laden with files. “Do I sit down?”

  Peter cleared the chair with no respect for the longevity of the files. “Of course. Take a seat.” He went back to his desk and sat down. “What happened? I don't believe this is a social call.”

  “It's not, unfortunately.” Garini shrugged. “Your guest Trevor Accanto was murdered today at the Basilica di Santa Trìnita.”

  Peter took a deep breath. “Oh, no.” He looked at the door. “Does Anne know?”

  Garini gave him one of his rare smiles. “If I didn't know you, I would think you're acting crazy.” He leaned back, stretched his legs, and folded his hands behind his head. “However, with your history, I know you're more or less normal, and to answer your question, yes, Anna does know, and I've already explained that she has nothing to fear. The situation is completely unlike the one when I got to know her.”

  Peter frowned. “Are you sure?”

  Anne appeared in the door, carrying a tray with two golden cups and a fragile saucer with wafer-thin chocolate cookies. The fragrance of strong coffee filled the room. “I thought you might need something nice.” She looked at her husband. “Has Stefano told you?”

  “Yes, I have.” Stefano said. “And I repeat that you don't need to fear anything.”

  She gave him a smile that looked a bit like a child collecting its courage.

  Stefano turned back to Peter. “Now tell me all you know about Trevor Accanto.”

  Peter took a cup of coffee from his wife and balanced it on a pile of paper, then took the saucer with the cookies and pushed it toward Garini. “Thank you, love.” He smiled at his wife, concern and love etched into his face. “Don't worry, dear.”

  “I won't.” Anne passed the second cup to Garini and left without a sound, closing the door behind her.

  Peter leaned back in his chair and sighed. “All I know about Trevor Accanto.” He shrugged. “I can say it in one sentence: He had it coming.”

  “Why?” Garini took a sip of the fragrant coffee and balanced the cup on his knee. The pile of paper on the desk looked way too wobbly to support the cup.

  “I lost count of the women he had with him. Every Christmas he appeared, and every Christmas it was another.”

  “So he was a regular guest.” Garini looked at the creamy swirl inside his cup of coffee and the white plume spiraling from it. “Since when?”

  “We'd have to check the register for that,” Peter said. “At a guess, I'd say he has been coming to the Garibaldi Hotel for four or five years already, if not more.”

  “Besides his obvious taste for beautiful women, what was he like?”

  Peter looked at the ceiling as if collecting his thoughts and brushed back his dark hair with one hand. “That's the funny thing about it; you had to like the guy. He was courteous, correct, and generous. He told you what he expected, but he was never unfair or unreasonable.” He sighed. “I wish I could say that of more of our guests.” He put his head to the side and looked at the apple core perched precariously on a cardboard file. “Anne said he was a charmer, and she was right. Everybody loved him.”

  “One didn't. He was strangled with a pair of nylons.”

  Peter reared back. “Geesh. Isn't that difficult?”

  Garini lifted his eyebrows. “What makes you think so?”

  “Well, nylons stretch like crazy.”

  “You've got something there.” Garini narrowed his eyes. “I'll give it a try.”

  “I wish I could see that.” Peter grinned.

  Garini frowned in thought. He didn't like the sound of this story. Too many suspects and too much money made a bad mix. “What about this year? Who was he with?”

  “A redhead,” Peter said. “A stunner, of course, but I don't know her name. She was Italian, though, and if I'm not much mistaken, she was also a native Florentine.”

  “How do you know?”

  Peter shrugged. “Experience. You can tell at one glance what country people come from if you run a hotel, and if you run it a little bit longer, you can even tell which area of that country. I once had a short conversation with her while she waited for Mr. Accanto.”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  Peter frowned. “I . . . yes, indeed. She left the hotel around ten.”

  “Was she with him?”

  He shook his head. “No, she was on her own, but that wasn't unusual. He always went for a run in the morning, and usually, the ladies didn't join him.”

  “Was she upset?”

  “Oh, no.” Peter shook his head. “She was humming and swinging her handbag. I'd say she was in a great mood.”

  So this morning, everything was still normal. Garini stared into space. “Did anything strike you as extraordinary this year?” He bent forward. “Anything that was different to the years before?”

  “No.” Peter didn't hesitate.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Garini looked at his friend without blinking. “Anything at all, even if it doesn't seem to be related?”

  Peter frowned. “If you ask me, last year was different. If he had been killed a year ago, I would have said that we have an immediate suspect. The woman he had with him at the time was called Suzanne, a Frenchwoman. She came back after he had left and made a scene.” He looked at Garini with the expression of someone who had a confession to make. “Did Anne tell you that she broke into the office?”

  “Yes.”

  Peter avoided his eye. “She seemed devastated. We were sorry for her, but we couldn't help her.”

  Garini swallowed his reproach. “Do you have her address?”

  Peter shook his head. “I seem to remember that she came from Paris, but that's hardly surprising. She left her address and asked us to forward any news we had of Trevor Accanto, but of course we threw it away.”

  “What a pity.” Garini sighed. “Anything else?”

  Peter looked at his fingers for a moment. “Not at the moment, no. But if I think of something, I'll let you know.”

  “Thanks.” Garini emptied his cup and got up. “Could you please show me Mr. Accanto's room now?”

  “Sure.” Peter got up. “We just need to get the master key from the safe.”

  “Master key?”

  Peter led the way back to the lobby. “The master key allows us to open the safe in each room. Our guests program their own code into it, but they usually forget it right away, and then we need to open the safe for them, of course only while they are present.” He took a slim, black key from the safe behind reception and closed it again.

  “I've checked our register.” Anne came up to them and held out a piece of paper to Garini. “This is Mr. Accanto's home address in Florida. He didn't put anything into our office safe, but he may have used the one in his room.”

  “Very efficient, thank you.” Garini took the paper and stowed it away in his jacket. “Can you also check how often he stayed with you?”

  “I've already done that.” Anna smiled. “He has been staying with us for the last five years. This was his sixth time at the Garibaldi Hotel. He always came in the middle of December and stayed for four or five weeks.”

  “Hmm.” Garini frowned. “Did you ever have the impression that he came for work?”

  “No.” They both said at the same time.

  �
�He came for pleasure,” Anne added. “That much is sure.”

  Garini frowned. “I wonder why he doesn't come in summer.”

  Peter looked at him. “I asked him that once. He said his uncle's birthday was in December, and because he was so attached to his uncle, he made it a rule to come every winter.”

  An uncle. It was the first time someone had mentioned family. “Did that sound convincing?”

  Anne and Peter exchanged a glance. “Difficult to say,” Anne finally said. “But on the whole, yes, I can imagine that he would do that. He was a curious mix of being caring and dropping people.”

  “Do you have the uncle's name or address?”

  “I'm afraid not.” Peter shook his head. “He just mentioned him once, in passing.” He made a move with his hand. “Let's take the stairs. Mr. Accanto always had the Boccaccio Suite.”

  Peter led him to the curving stairs covered by a thick carpet in a muted red color. The smooth wood of the polished walnut banister glistened. As they climbed the stairs, the chandelier light from the lobby and the soft piano music receded, but the atmosphere of luxury remained. They passed an arched window with a fragrant flower in a slim vase. Garini smiled. “You're surrounded by beauty.”

  Peter nodded. “I am, but if you have the responsibility of keeping it up, it pales a bit.” He pointed at a massive wooden door. "This is the Boccaccio Suite."

  “I wouldn't want to enter this by force.” Garini eyed the heavy hinges.

  “You'd not get far unless you came with a battering ram.” Peter smiled. “They built things to last in those days.” He took a heavy brass key with a curlicued top from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and turned it.

  “Nice touch.” Garini said. “A plastic card would rather destroy the feeling.”

  Peter opened the door and held it open for Garini to enter.

  When Stefano looked up, the words dried in his mouth. He was in the most perfect room he had ever seen. With their entrance, several hidden spotlights had gone on and filled the room with a warm glow, evening out the cold winter light filtering in through the high windows. The floor and the high stone walls were bare, giving the room a medieval touch, but this austere effect was mitigated by rich brocade wall hangings in muted colors of red and gold. A matching material had been used to drape the four poster bed at one side of the room. A desk with a comfortable looking leather chair in front looked as if it had come straight from the library of a castle. On the opposite side, the wall was covered with a wardrobe made of polished wood. It stretched across the whole wall like an elaborate wainscoting. To their right, another heavy wooden door stood half-open and revealed a glimpse of a state-of-the-art bathroom in the background. “I'm impressed.”

  Peter smiled. “It's our best room, and Mr. Accanto always booked it for his whole stay.”

  “Can I search it now?”

  Peter made a move with his hand. “Feel free. Do you want me to stay?”

  “Yes, please, if you don't mind. I'd like to have a witness.” Garini started with the polished desk made of gleaming walnut wood and opened the top drawer. A laptop of the latest generation fitted snugly into it. “I'd like to take this laptop with me, so someone can go over the contents. I'll give you a receipt.”

  “Sure.” Peter sounded a bit uneasy. “Will you have to keep it long? I'm not sure how the heirs will react.”

  “We won't need it more than a few days.” Garini looked up. “Do you know anything about the heirs? We've just contacted the US, and I hope they'll soon come back to us.”

  “No, I don't know about any heirs or Mr. Accanto's family in Florence.” Peter sighed. “This uncle he once mentioned never came to the hotel, if he exists at all.” He looked around. “I guess we'll have to move his stuff to a storage room until someone will come and claim it.”

  “Yes, you should do that, and I'll keep you updated about the heir.” Garini opened another drawer and found a fountain pen that looked as if it had cost his yearly income. “Nice.” He opened it and wrote one word on the creamy colored notepad of the hotel. The pen slid over the paper without a sound, leaving a rich trail of royal-blue ink behind. Next to the pad, Garini discovered an ink bottle with a historical looking label. “Do you provide this as the finishing touch of atmosphere?”

  Peter shook his head. “No, but it's a good idea. I'll suggest it to Anne. Mr. Accanto always signed with a fountain pen. He used several different types.” He put his head to the side. “I've not often seen him use that one, though.”

  “I remember he had one in the pocket of his jacket, not quite as heavy.” Garini lifted the ink bottle and checked the contents. “It's half empty, so it does indeed seem as if he used it regularly.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Garini shrugged. “Probably not. I'm just trying to take in every detail to get an idea about the kind of man he was.”

  “He was a man who combined the last word in technology,” Peter nodded at the laptop, “with a traditional fountain pen that had to be filled by a piston mechanism. So what does that tell you?”

  Garini smiled. “It tells me that he did not use the fountain pens as status symbols.”

  Peter lifted his eyebrows. “You have to explain that.”

  “If it had been a status symbol, he would have had only one pen in his possession, from the best-known brand in the world, and it would probably have dried out by now. Instead, he had several fountain pens of different brands with him; they all write like butter, and he did not go for the easy cartridge system but used the more complicated but charming version of a piston mechanism.”

  “So?”

  “So I have to adjust my picture. Mr. Trevor Accanto was a connoisseur. He did not go for the obvious; he cherished quality.”

  Peter grinned. “I could have told you that. He stayed at the Garibaldi Hotel, after all.”

  “All right, all right.” Garini held up a hand. “But it tells us something about his character. If I had found a plastic ballpoint pen in there,” he pointed at the desk, “I'd have known it was placed there by someone else.”

  Peter opened his eyes wide. “Now I see.”

  Garini looked around the room. “Actually, this room looks too clean to be lived in.”

  “Oh, that's because the cleaning personnel has gone through it. I know that it didn't look like that this morning.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Peter shook his head.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I heard Viola complaining.” Peter went to the phone next to the bed and typed in a number. “Viola? Would you come to the Boccaccio Suite for a moment? Thank you.” He turned to his friend. “She'll tell you herself.”

  “Thanks.” Garini used the time to lift the mattress and peered underneath. “Nothing.”

  The door opened. “Here I am, Signor Grant.”

  Viola gasped as if she had been running. She leaned against the door-frame while catching her breath.

  Her figure reminded Garini of gnocchi - soft and white and round. Even her hair was fluffy.

  “Is it true that the American was killed?” Viola swallowed.

  “I'm afraid so,” Peter said. “This is Commissario Garini who'd like to ask you a few questions.”

  Her brown eyes widened until the whites showed all around. “But it's got nothing to do with me!” She lifted both hands as if to avert a blow. “I didn't touch him; I hardly knew him. Why do I have to answer questions?”

  “Because you might have valuable information that can lead us to the killer,” Garini said.

  “Oh.” She gave him a measuring glance, then drew herself up. “I see. What do you want to know?”

  “Did you clean this room today?”

  “Yes, I did.” Viola rolled her eyes. “And a real hassle it was. That red-haired lady threw all her clothes around, and every morning, I had to pick them up. She always had tons of shopping bags lying around, and wrapping material, and I never knew what to do with it.” She spread her
hands. “Some ladies get real angry if you clear away the shopping bags, from the big brands, that is.”

  “How about Mr. Accanto?” Garini asked.

  “The American, him, I didn't mind so much. He always cleared his stuff away.”

  Garini didn't take his gaze off her. “Where did you put all the stuff from the red-haired lady?”

  “In here.” Gloria went aside and slid open the wooden door at the furthest end of the wardrobe. “I hung it all up, though I knew she would throw most of it on the floor, and I'd have to do it again tomorrow.”

  Garini froze. The wardrobe was stuffed full with female apparel, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the glossy shopping bags, all neatly folded. With one step, he was next to the wardrobe and picked up the top one with the distinctive logo of Temptation. Carlina's store. His mouth went dry.

  “She had so many of those bags,” Viola sighed. “But it's such an expensive store that I didn't dare to throw away a single one.”

  Garini clenched his teeth. Damn. He had hoped Carlina would only have a slight connection to this case, and now it sounded as if the rich American had even been a regular customer.

  “In the mornings, Mr. Accanto often went shopping on his own and later surprised his . . . friends with the results.” Peter explained. “The bags were all directly delivered here. I think some of them are still downstairs at this moment.”

  With an effort, Garini dragged his thoughts away from Carlina. At least he now had an explanation why the rich American didn't have a single shopping bag with him when he was killed at Santa Trìnita. He focused on Viola. “Did you notice anything unusual about Mr. Accanto or his friend this morning? Anything, even if it doesn't seem to be related to the murder?”

  Viola pushed her lower lip forward and frowned. Then she shook her head. “No, I don't think so.”

  “Did you empty the paper bin this morning?”

  Viola drew herself up. “Of course I did!”

  “But you didn't notice anything unusual?”

  She shook her head. “Nah. Some paper, a tissue, stuff like that. Nothing special.”

  “And in the bathroom?”

  Viola frowned. “The bathroom bin was empty. I remember because I found an empty bottle of shampoo on the floor, and the cellophane wrapping of a new one.” She sniffed. “That red-haired lady dropped everything right where she stood. She didn't put no things where they belonged.”