Charmer's Death (Temptation in Florence Book 2)

by boeker, beate

  “We could ask Annalisa to bring the cups.” Ricciarda had overheard the exchange.

  “Good idea.” Carlina looked at her watch. “Where is she anyway? We said she should be here by nine thirty.” She punched in Annalisa's cell phone number and waited until she heard a sleepy reply. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said. “This is your employer speaking. You were supposed to be at work a quarter of an hour ago.”

  “Gosh, Carlina, don't be so unfeeling.” Annalisa spoke low, her words slurred together. “I had an awful night and simply didn't feel like getting up early.”

  Anger shot up like a geyser inside Carlina. “I know a perfect recipe to get over this kind of problem, Annalisa. Get your butt out of bed and start to work. There's nothing like a bit of diversion to get over your troubles.”

  Ricciarda gave her a startled glance.

  Carlina stopped herself short. She didn't often lose her tempter like that, but her nerves felt like chewed strings.

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” Annalisa's shriek came through the phone loud and clear. “After all I've been through!”

  Carlina took a deep breath. “I apologize. I'm a bit stressed out myself.”

  “How you can be stressed out when you've no idea what I've been going through and--”

  “Annalisa.” Carlina concentrated on making her voice sound calm and in control. “I need your help. Right now.”

  “What?” Her cousin was wide awake now. “Has anything happened?”

  “Not really. It's just that the whole town will walk by Temptation today to check out what I look like because a dirty newspaper featured me as the most-likely murderer of Trevor.” To her horror, her voice broke.

  “What?” Annalisa seemed flabbergasted.

  “That's why I need the espresso cups with the Temptation logo from my apartment.” Carlina hastily continued. “I plan to sell them to every sensation-hungry person who dares to show his nose in my store.”

  “You want to cash in on Trevor's murder?” Annalisa's voice dropped to a whisper. “How mean is that? How can you only think of money when the most wonderful man on earth is dead?”

  Carlina closed her eyes. The thought of selling the espresso cups had helped her to bear the thought of getting through the day. So maybe it was callous, but her behavior wasn't worse than that of the people she expected, and if they blocked up her store, she would lose more turnover than she could ever make with the stupid cups. Didn't Annalisa get that? “Whatever you say, Annalisa.” A sudden tiredness swamped her. “You do whatever it takes to make you happy. I wish you good luck.” She hung up, swallowed a lump in her throat, and turned to Ricciarda. “Am I callous if I sell the cups?”

  Ricciarda shrugged. “You don't force anybody to buy them. The customers make up their minds what they want. I don't see anything wrong with that.”

  “Thanks.” Carlina took a deep breath. “You know, we still have one box of the cups in the storage room. Let's get them out and decorate them.”

  They had just finished placing the espresso cups in a long row in the window with a sign “Souvenir from Temptation - 5 Euros”, when a car stopped in front of the store.

  Annalisa and Benedetta got out and started to unload several boxes, then Benedetta drove off again. Annalisa carried the boxes into the store and gave Carlina a sheepish look. “I apologize. Mama said I was out of line. She overheard our conversation.”

  Carlina gave her a tentative smile. “All right. Let's not fight. The world is difficult enough as it is.”

  II

  Garini leaned against the light-yellow stone wall of a bank and sighed while going through his notes. He had talked to a million shop assistants - or so it felt - and everywhere, he had heard the same story - Annalisa had spent fabulous sums in cash after complicated and tedious discussions what would fit best to her style and her outfit. If she had wanted to leave a red trail all over town, she could hardly have done better.

  Still, it didn't take long to strangle someone inside a church. It was a matter of two minutes, maybe five. As his luck would have it, Annalisa had been in between shops at the crucial time. Damn. He would have liked to cross her off his list of suspects- at least it would have made his life with Carlina a lot more relaxed.

  He pushed the notes back into his leather jacket and turned toward the Arno river. Now to another point on his list, one he had been postponing because it seemed like a waste of time - he still had to talk to the waiter who may have overheard Carlina's and Annalisa's conversation the night before Trevor's murder. Not that it would get him anywhere, but he had to prove that he had not overlooked anything in connection with Carlina. His boss Cervi would be only too happy if he found a chance to stick his finger into a hole.

  With an inner shrug, he walked the short distance to Gino's restaurant, went through the door, and looked around. The air hung heavy and stale, and the feeble winter light hardly penetrated through the small windows. His steps echoed in the room as he went past deserted tables and upended chairs. “Hello?” His voice sounded hollow.

  “Yes, yes, I'm coming.” A rotund man with dark curls hurried from the back and fixed him with small eyes. “We're not open.”

  “Are you the owner of this restaurant?”

  The man frowned. “Yes. I'm Gino Benvenuto. What do you want?”

  Garini suppressed a smile. For a man whose name translated as “Welcome”, and a restaurant owner at that, the name sat like an ill-fitting coat on this broad man's back.

  Garini pulled out his identification. “I'm Stefano Garini from the homicide department. I need to talk to the waiter who served at the tables two nights ago.”

  Signor Benvenuto stiffened. “Did he get into trouble?”

  “No.” Garini already felt sorry for the waiter. Signor Benvenuto didn't come across like a boss who listened before he punished. “I just need to verify the movements of two ladies.” He took a picture from his wallet. It showed Carlina and her cousin Emma at Emma's wedding day and had been taken last autumn. Stefano still had it from the last investigation that involved Carlina's family, and he had tried to pretend to himself that he had only forgotten to take it from his wallet. At least it came in useful now.

  He showed the picture to the restaurant owner. “Do you recognize these ladies?”

  Signor Benvenuto looked at the picture and pointed a stubby finger at Carlina. “She was here.” His voice was gruff. “Eyes like a cat. I remember her.”

  “Was she in the company of the woman next to her?”

  “Nah.” Benvenuto shook his curly head. “She was with a redhead.”

  Garini fished out another picture printed from the Internet before he came out on his quest. “This one?”

  Benvenuto threw a look at Annalisa's picture and nodded. “Yep. That's her.”

  “Can you remember how long they stayed?”

  “They came around nine. Silvio will know.”

  “Silvio?”

  “My waiter.” Benvenuto frowned and looked at his gold wrist watch. “He'll be here in five minutes. If he's not late again, that is.”

  I hope he won't be late. Not so much for my sake as for his. Garini nodded.

  Benvenuto turned his back on him. “You can wait here. I have work to do.” He disappeared into the back without offering Garini a seat.

  Garini took one of the upended chairs and placed it on the wooden floor, then settled on it to wait. Mr. Benvenuto gave him a bad feeling. He wasn't cool and arrogant like the habitués of crime, nor nervous like the innocent. He was dark and deep and certainly had something somewhere that he didn't want to share with the police. Well, for the moment, he wasn't interested, unless it somehow involved Trevor Accanto.

  Garini moved his toes inside his shoes. It was getting colder every day, and the chilly draft around his legs didn't make things better. If only Annalisa hadn't started that love affair, then he would have had enough time to let his fragile relationship with Carlina grow into something stronger. Now, they wer
e on opposing sides once again. He shook his head. What rotten luck. He rubbed his hands and turned up the collar of his leather jacket.

  Fifteen cold minutes later, the door flew open and a cold gust of wind blew in a disheveled, young man. He stopped in front of Garini, much like a playful Saint Bernard dog, huge, hairy, and harmless. “Buona sera, Signor.” He glanced at the empty room, and his face took on a puzzled expression.

  He has better manners than his boss. “Buona sera.” Garini got up. “I'm Stefano Garini from the homicide department, and--”

  The young man took one step back, his brown eyes wide. “Did he kill someone?”

  Garini never took his gaze off the waiter. “Who do you mean?”

  “Signor Benventuo! Did he?”

  “Not that I know of.” Garini took out the two pictures. “I'm here because I need you to confirm something.”

  “Me? Really?”

  Again, Silvio's expression reminded Garini of a Saint Bernard dog; he could almost see his tongue hanging out in eager and friendly anticipation. “Do you recognize these women?” He showed him the picture of Emma and Carlina.

  The young man took it, and an expression of ridiculous dismay crossed his face. “So she really did it?” His voice sank to a whisper. “She looked so friendly.”

  “What do you mean?” A cold hand grabbed Stefano's stomach.

  Silvio pointed with a trembling finger at Carlina. “She said she would kill him!”

  “Can you repeat the conversation?” Garini's voice was sharp.

  Silvio frowned and looked into space, then shook his head. “No. It was a busy evening, you know, and I was running to and fro all the time. I just remember that I came up to her table, and that she said she would rather kill him herself. I remember because it startled me. She had seemed so friendly earlier.”

  Garini's mouth felt dry.

  Silvio pointed at Emma. “But that one wasn't with her.”

  “Was it this one?” Garini showed him Annalisa's picture.

  “Yes! That's her!” Silvio nodded until his brown hair fell forward and hid his eyes. “Great hair. I like red-haired women.” He gave Garini a shy smile. “She was really sad, and the other,” he pointed at Carlina, “was angry at her.” He looked as if he could relate to being surrounded by angry people.

  “Can you recall anything else?”

  Silvio shrugged. “The one with red hair only had a salad, and the other had gnocchi. It was our special on Tuesday night.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I'm afraid not.” Silvio looked at Garini with wide open eyes. “I say, is it true? Did she really kill the man she was talking about?”

  “No.” The answer came straight from his gut, clear, unequivocal. Garini cut himself short. You're in too deep, my boy. He nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you need me to confirm to your boss that you're not guilty of anything?”

  The brown eyes looked grateful. “Oh, would you do that?”

  “Sure.” I know what it means to have an unfair boss.

  An hour later, Garini stretched in his office chair by lifting both arms high above his head. He sighed and looked with a despondent feeling at the screen on his computer. How he hated the bureaucratic side of his job. All the forms to fill in; all the explanations. Writing a report was bad enough, but at least it helped to clear his head. Government forms, however, could only be considered a punishment for unknown sins in past lives. Unknown, but terrible.

  His phone rang. Garini pounced on it and accepted the call with relief. Any interruption would do. “Pronto!”

  “Stefano, this is Peter.” His friend sounded excited. “Can you come to the Garibaldi Hotel right now?”

  “Right now?” Garini glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and he had to hand in the forms by six.

  “I'd rather show you than tell you on the phone,” Peter said. “I think it's important.”

  “I'll be with you in five minutes.” Garini placed the receiver back where it belonged, went to the window, and looked out. A fine rain covered the dark cobblestones on the street with a filmy mist. He grabbed his heavy leather jacket and hurried from the police station.

  When he entered the spacious lobby of the Garibaldi Hotel, the shining light made him feel welcome. It smelled of cinnamon and reminded him of Christmas. He still had to buy a gift for his father and sister and maybe . . . he hesitated. He wanted to give something to Carlina, but he couldn't think of anything that would suit.

  Peter came forward to meet him, an air of suppressed excitement around him. “Thank you for coming.” He took Stefano by the arm and led him to the stairs at the side of the hall. “You've got to see this to believe it.”

  “I'm bursting with curiosity.” Garini's voice was dry.

  Peter gave him a glance and grinned. “I can't say it shows. You're pretty good at hiding your feelings.” He led the way to the next floor, then opened the door to the Boccaccio suite and stepped aside to let his friend pass by. “Did I tell you that Mr. Accanto always insisted on having this suite?”

  “You did.”

  “I'd have sworn I knew every single nook in this house, but this one surprised me.” He pointed at the heavy bed which now stood on the other side.

  “You've rearranged the room?” Garini went forward.

  “Yes. It was Anne's idea. She said it would create more distance from the murder.” Peter shrugged. “Don't ask me to explain that one. Women, you know.”

  Garini nodded. “I understand.”

  “You do?” Peter looked surprised. “I thought you--” He stopped mid-sentence. “Sorry. I didn't mean to imply . . . “

  Garini gave him one of his rare smiles. “You didn't. Even though I'm not married, I do occasionally deal with women, you know.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes. “Stefano. Don't tell me you--?”

  “What?”

  “You've found someone?”

  Garini's smile deepened in spite of himself. “Not really.”

  “But maybe?”

  Garini inclined his head. “Maybe.” He turned back to the room. “Now tell me what happened.”

  “Well, when Anne had talked me around the whole thing, she said she wanted to show me what it could look like, so we came up here. She wanted to shift the bed to the position where you can see it now, so, though I didn't agree, I finally gave in and helped her to push it over.”

  Stefano eyed the heavy wooden bed with the lush curtains. “Looks a bit heavy for two.”

  “The legs are hollow,” Peter said. “I knew that. What I didn't know,“ he bent down and pressed the inside of the leg nearest the wall, “is that there's a small door here, so you have a perfect hiding place.”

  Garini knelt down and eyed the bedpost with its hidden cache. “Interesting.” His fingers probed the oblong opening. “So you discovered it by accident?”

  “Yes.” Peter nodded. “When we moved the bed, I hit my toe on the bed post. The little door opened, and a small notebook fell out.” He pulled it from his jacket. It wasn't much bigger than the palm of a hand, bound in black leather, with a fragile looking elastic ribbon holding the covers together.

  Garini lifted his eyebrows.

  “You won't believe this,” Peter said. “I know he was a Ladies Man, but I'd never have guessed THAT.”

  His friend accepted the notebook without a word. On the fly leaf, a decisive hand had written the name Trevor V. Accanto in black ink.

  “That's his signature,” Peter said. “Turn the page.”

  Garini obeyed. A faded picture showed a tall woman with an extraordinary face. It wasn't mere beauty; she had a certain quality, a grace and reassurance that shone from the picture as if she had suddenly entered the room in person. The man who had his arm around her shoulders, a much younger Trevor, looked at her with a smile in his eyes that didn't need any explanation. The long black hair of the woman fell to her shoulders, and from the cut of her blouse, it became clear that the picture dated b
ack some twenty or twenty-five years. Garini looked up. “Do you know her?”

  Peter shook his head. “No. But she reminds me of a picture in a children's book I once had - Snow White.” He nodded at the book. “You'd better go on.”

  The next picture showed the same man, the same look in his eyes . . . but another woman. She had blond hair, swept up into a chignon. Her eyes laughed into the camera with a mixture of mischief and fun. “Unknown woman number two – Laughing Eyes.” Garini said and turned the next page. When his gaze fell onto the third picture, he froze. “Madonna.” His voice was a whisper.

  Peter came closer and looked over Garini's shoulder. “This one isn't quite as good-looking as the others, I must say.” He looked at his friend. “Don't tell me you've recognized her?”

  “I have.” Garini's voice was grim. “She's the wife of my boss. Marcella Cervi. Twenty-five years younger, twenty-five kilos lighter. Damn.”

  “Bad luck.” Peter made a face as if he had bitten into a lemon. “Do you have to show this book to your boss?”

  “At some point, I guess. But not yet.” He looked at his friend. “You know, I'm almost afraid to go on. Will this gallery continue for twenty years? How many suspects will I end up with?”

  “Don't worry.” Peter shook his head. “Mr. Accanto didn't return to Florence for fifteen years or even more. I believe he once told me he was too busy tripling his fortune during those years.”

  “I wish he had continued with that admirable project.” Garini turned the next page.

  A stunning Japanese woman smiled at them, with features chiseled clear and sweet and eyebrows as perfect as the waning moon. The man next to her had aged without losing his attractiveness, and their warm clothes were modern. Behind them, the statue of David stood in the weak winter light.

  “Do you recognize her?” Peter asked.

  Garini frowned. “I've seen her before; I'm sure of that, but I can't place her.”

  “It's Akemi Hateyama, the famous violinist,” Peter said. “I've got a CD from her at home.”