“Does she live in Florence?”
Peter shook his head. “I don't think so. Her father was Italian, but I believe she now lives in Tokyo. That picture was taken five years ago, by the way. I remember her, even though she didn't sign the guest book.”
“Well, at least we know two names already. That's a start.” Garini turned the next page, his mind still grappling with the concept of telling his boss that his wife Marcella had been the lover of a rich American some twenty-five years ago. If he was not mistaken, they had been married longer than that. Damn.
His gaze alighted on the next picture. Garini froze. A sudden urge to double up in pain gripped him, as if someone had boxed him straight into the solar plexus, but he stood transfixed.
“Stefano?” Peter shot a sharp glance at the picture, then at his friend. “What's the matter?”
Garini didn't reply. He stared at the picture without blinking.
This time, the attractive American was flanked by two women. On his right, a slim and sportive looking lady with a long pony-tail had her face half turned away from the camera, but still, she exuded vitality and health like an advertisement for a fitness club. Stefano hardly noticed her. The lady on Accanto's left hand side held his gaze riveted. She smiled at him from the picture with her cat-like eyes, eyes he knew so well. Her brown curls were ruffled by the wind. Carlina.
Peter turned on his heels and went to the wall where a wooden panel with intricate carvings hid a cupboard. He slid the panel aside, took out a small bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and filled both. “Take this.” He pressed one glass into Garini's hand.
Stefano accepted it without looking up from the picture and tossed it down. The smoky taste filled his mouth. He felt the fiery drink going down inside him, settling him somewhat. “Thanks.” It sounded rough.
“Carlina Ashley, the owner of Temptation.” Peter's voice was sober. “So she's the one.” It wasn't a question.
Stefano blinked. “What do you mean?”
“She's the special one; the one you mentioned earlier.”
Stefano gave him a contorted smile. “Does it show that much?”
“Well, for a man who never shows his emotions, that was a pretty spectacular show.” Peter smiled. “I don't blame you. If I had found Anne's picture in there . . .” He shuddered. “You needn't worry, though. She doesn't fit the rule. Her hair isn't long enough.”
Stefano leafed back. Peter was right. All the other ladies had long and luxurious hair, way beyond shoulder-length, quite unlike Carlina's bouncy curls. His heart lightened, but aloud, he said, “She told me he was very charming.”
“He was.” Peter's voice was dry. “That doesn't mean she slept with him.”
“No.” Stefano took a deep breath. “Why didn't you think it was the other, that sporting goddess?”
“When you gripped the book harder, your thumb covered half her face, but you didn't seem to notice.”
“You know, if old Garibaldi should ever kick you from the management of this hotel, come to me. I can use you on the force.”
Peter grinned. “Will do.”
Garini shook his head to clear it and turned back to the notebook. “After this shock, things can't get much worse.” He turned the next page and gasped. “Oh, no. Madonna, no.”
“What?” Peter looked over his shoulder. “Who is it? Do you know her?”
“Indeed I do.” Garini's voice sounded grimmer than ever. “It's Emma, Carlina's cousin. She married an extremely jealous man some months ago.”
“If it doesn't have any bearing on the case, you don't need to tell him.”
“You don't know that family.” Garini still stared at Emma, who gave him a tantalizing smile from the crook of Accanto's arm. “Carlina is so protective of them, it's ridiculous. And the whole town is littered with Mantonis, so I'm bound to fall over them whenever I'm on a case.”
“Makes me feel glad Anne doesn't have any family left.”
“It has its advantages,” Garini pushed a hand through his hair. “Now only her mother is missing to make this charade complete.”
“Is the mother gorgeous, too?”
“The mother is unusual, to put it in a kind way. To put it in a blunt way, she's completely batty.”
“Oh.” Peter gave him a glance that spoke volumes.
With a feeling of dread, Stefano turned the next page, but this time, the woman looking back at him was a stranger. Relief flooded him. She reminded him of the Mona Lisa, with her sad eyes and a little smile that didn't give much away. “Know this one?” he asked.
“Not her name,” Peter shook his head “though I do recall her face. Very quiet, she was. He usually liked more exuberant women; I remember thinking so at the time.”
“Did you ever talk to her?”
“No.” Peter shook his head. “We could ask some of our staff if they remember her, but I shouldn't think so.” He shrugged. “We have so many people coming and going and as I said, she was so quiet that she didn't leave much of an impression unless you took the time to look at her, then you noticed her beauty.”
“I see.” Garini turned the last page and looked at a woman with glossy brown hair.
“This is the Frenchwoman,” Peter said. “I told you about her. Suzanne something from Paris. She made a scene. I've never seen anything like it.“ He shook his head. “It was dreadful.”
“If you should happen to find her address or anything else about her, get in touch immediately.”
“I will.” Peter straightened and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That's it. The other pages are all empty.”
“Thank God.” Garini sighed. “It has almost given me a heart-attack as it is.” He leafed through the empty pages. “No doubt Annalisa would have been the next in this unusual gallery.”
“Annalisa?”
“The gorgeous redhead Mr. Accanto frequented this year. Another of Carlina's cousins.”
“Ugh.” Peter grimaced. “Bad luck.” Then he gave his friend a glance and hesitated.
Garini frowned. “What?”
“I just wondered . . .”
“Well?”
“Will you show this book to Carlina Ashley?”
Garini took a deep breath. “Yes, I will. She knew him and might recognize some of the women for me. Besides, she can help me tackle Emma.”
“Won't she object to do that?”
“You don't know her.” Stefano looked at his friend. “She'll insist on holding her hand, making me feel like a damn inquisitor.”
Chapter 10
“Ciao.” Carlina's voice came softly through the phone, almost drowned by the sound of voices in the background.
“It's me, Stefano.” Why did he have such a ridiculous feeling of happiness every time he talked to her? He cleared his throat. “Where are you? It sounds as if you're surrounded by a bus-load of people.”
“I am, actually.” Carlina chuckled. “Piedro has done me a good turn after all, though it didn't look like it this morning. People are almost trampling each other to death here, and I'm the queen of espresso cups today.”
“Espresso cups?”
“Yeah. They have the Temptation logo, and though I had planned them to be a gift, I spontaneously decided to sell them this morning.”
He grinned. “Good for you.”
“Piedro is standing in front of the door, as you instructed,” she continued. “I've told him to take a break at lunch-time, which he accepted, but he's back now.”
“Good.” He clenched his teeth. Piedro's indiscreet behavior had jeopardized her. He would not forgive this for a long time.
The babble of voices in the background seemed to swell. “Listen, I have to go. It's a bit crazy here.”
“I have to talk to you in connection with the case, Carlina. Can we meet somewhere without your family interrupting?” He heard her swallow and held his breath. Would she clam up and refuse to see him?
“Sure,” she said. “When?”
Relief flooded him.
“Tonight, if you can make it?”
“I can.”
He loved that about her. She didn't play hard to get. She either had time or she hadn't. As simple as that. “Thank you.” He hoped she would hear the sincerity in his voice.
“Should I come to your office?” she asked. “It's about the only place in the world where I don't expect a family member to crop up without prior notice.”
The idea of asking her into his dusty office filled him with dismay. He didn't want to alienate her altogether. “It's not an attractive place.” His voice was rueful.
She laughed. “You're right.”
Hearing her laugh made him feel better.
“I remember one very uncomfortable session,” she added.
“So do I.” Garini smiled. “There's one other place where your family doesn't go. Would you be willing to have dinner with me at my place?” He stopped himself short. He had not planned to say this, but now the words were out, and he could not take them back. Didn't want to, but still, he wasn't used to hearing himself say unexpected stuff.
“I didn't know you can cook.” She sounded surprised.
“I can't.” He suppressed a feeling of panic. “It'll be only omelet.”
“I like only omelet.”
He heard the smile in her voice, and something inside him skipped. “At eight thirty?”
“I'll be there. Do I need to bring anything?”
“Nothing but yourself.”
He hurried home via the small supermarket around the corner, bought some eggs and herbs, fresh bread, and a bottle of wine. Then he tidied the apartment, laid the table, and opened the bottle of Chianti. He felt a thrill of excitement and happiness humming inside him. “You're a fool, Stefano,” he said to himself. “By the time she'll have seen the picture of Emma, she'll be ready to kick you around the place.” But when he opened the door to her, her cat-like eyes smiled at him as if they had never been at odds. He cleared his throat. “Come in.”
Carlina looked around the small kitchen, remembering the last time she'd been here. It hadn't changed. The small table at the side was set for two. No candles, no napkins. The whole setting was practical, reduced to the basic needs, without any unnecessary frills or adornments. Just like Garini, in fact. She stole a look at him. His light eyes that never seemed to miss anything were concentrated on getting her a drink. In the beginning, she had felt intimidated by him. Now, it was different. She knew and accepted his unemotional facade and the way he pounced on things like a tiger. But somehow, she wasn't on the opposing side anymore. Without noticing it, she had slipped right next to him, in spite of the facts, which, again, put them at odds. How strange.
He filled two heavy glasses with Chianti and passed her one.
“Grazie.” Carlina inhaled the fragrance of the rich wine. “Hmm.”
He lifted his glass and looked into her eyes.
She couldn't read his gaze. Was it tenderness? Regret? Her heart gave a nervous flutter.
“I'm not sure what we should drink to,” he said.
“That we'll soon find the murderer?” She used the word “we” on purpose, and by the way his lips twitched, she knew he had noticed.
“That, and that we'll still be friends afterwards.”
Carlina swallowed. That didn't sound good. What on earth had he discovered? She took a small sip. “It's a nice wine,” she said.
“I haven't forgotten that you were once engaged to a man who owned a famous vineyard.”
“Oh.” She had forgotten it. “That should have put me off the wine, but fortunately, it didn't.”
“Carlina.” He leaned against the stove and looked at the glass of wine in his hand, turning it in circles. “Do you think we could have dinner together without talking about the murder case?”
“Of course.” The clenched muscles in her stomach relaxed. The confrontation would not come right away. First, the thin ribbon of friendship that linked them had a chance to become stronger. She was all for it.
“Thank you.” He placed his glass on the table and took some eggs from the fridge. “Can you crack the eggs for our omelet?”
“Yep. I'm great at breaking things.” She took the eggs from him.
Their hands touched, and for a fleeting moment, their gaze locked.
Carlina could feel her face going hot and turned away with a quick move.
As they prepared dinner, Carlina told him about her lazy vacation by the beach last November and the day tours she had taken. She did not tell him how often she had thought of him.
He described the beauty of the snowy Alps and how much he liked to go skiing. He said that he liked to see his sister for five days a year, but never more, as they would then inevitably start to fight. His sister would stay with her in-laws in Switzerland over Christmas. He did not mention having felt lonely, but he asked her how she planned to spend Christmas.
Carlina explained that in her family, it was the custom to give each other self-made gifts only. Her aunt Benedetta had found an easy way out by producing the most delicious chocolate truffles in different variations every year. Emma made tiny balls of soap with rose leaves and other herbs. Her mother usually crocheted something dreadful, like covers for toilet rolls. “The best idea is Uncle Teo's.” Carlina grinned. “He learned years ago how to fold five-Euro-bills into tiny frogs that jump if you press your finger onto one end. It's a sort of Origami technique, I believe. So we all get frogs for Christmas.”
“You're kidding.”
“Nope.”
He shook his head. “And what do you do?”
“It throws me into a panic every year,” Carlina said. “But for once, I'm well prepared. I've designed a collection of lace underwear in collaboration with the Florentine company Bartosti, and my first collection will be sold at the Florence Christmas Fair.” She tried not to sound too proud. “So all the female members of the family will get new underwear this year. Even if I didn't make the lace myself, I figured it would still qualify as self-made, as it's my own collection.”
He nodded. “What about Uncle Teo and Ernesto?”
Carlina grinned. “No lacy underwear for the men. Instead, I visited a wine cave this summer where you can fill the bottles yourself. I figured that would qualify as self-made.”
“That sounds much better than crocheting.”
“Doesn't it?” Carlina grinned. “Though now that I come to think of it, it's possible that my mother is doing something different this year. I've not seen her crocheting at all.”
“Is that a good sign?” Garini asked.
“I don't think so.” Carlina frowned. “At least, with crocheting, we know what's going to happen, and we can bury the result somewhere.”
The omelet was a success. Light and fluffy, with oregano and “Herbes de Provence” and a bit of milk, it tasted like a happy summer day. The fresh bread was soft and sweet and had a thick crust. They dipped it into salted olive oil.
“There's something immensely satisfying about good bread, isn't there?” Carlina inhaled the fresh fragrance of the bread. “It makes me happy.”
He gave her one of his rare smiles. “Cut yourself another slice.”
“Thanks.” Carlina savored another slice, then leaned back and stretched. “This was lovely, thank you so much.”
“It's nothing compared to your aunt Benedetta's cooking.”
“It was simple and good. Just my kind of food.” She smiled at him.
“Thanks. “Stefano got up. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Very much so.”
He went to the cupboard and took out a jar. As he spooned ground coffee into the battered filter of the coffee machine, he said, “I tried to get out of this case.”
Her happiness fell away like a warm coat sliding from her shoulders. “Yes?”
“My boss didn't want to hear of it. He ordered me to continue.”
Phew. She made sure her relief didn't show, as she didn't want to alienate him again. “I see.”
�
��Today, I have received a piece of evidence that pulled the case wide open. I have half a dozen new suspects.”
Good. Then you won't focus on Annalisa. Carlina didn't voice her thoughts but concentrated instead on composing her face into an impassive mask.
He gave her an enigmatic glance. “And no, that doesn't mean I'll forget all about Annalisa.”
“Damn!” Carlina jumped up. “I thought I'd made sure my thoughts don't show.”
His mouth twitched.
He was laughing at her! She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “It's unfair. You can read my every thought.”
Stefano switched on the coffee machine and turned to her. “It's fate.” His smile faded. “Carlina.”
“Yes?”
“Before we talk about the case, I want you to understand three things.”
Her own smile fled. “Yes?”
His light eyes focused on her with the intensity of a sunbeam. “First, I do not for one second believe that you killed Trevor Accanto.”
“Good.” She swallowed. “I didn't, by the way.”
“Second, I can't say the same thing about the rest of your family.”
“But--”
He held up his hand. “Third, if I want to investigate this case in the correct manner, then I have to keep an open mind on everything and everybody. This includes everything, even evidence that points your way.”
“I understand.” Her voice sounded flat. “I'm a suspect.”
“Yes.” It sounded tired. “But you're also--” he hesitated.
“Yes?”
“You're also . . . you.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, as I told you, a new bit of evidence has come up, and I've decided to show it to you, to discuss possibilities.”
Carlina narrowed her eyes. “Why are you doing that?”
“Because you might be able to help me.”
She nodded. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to look at some pictures and tell me if you recognize these women.” He left the kitchen and came back a minute later with a black notebook in the palm of his hand. “Be careful. It's the original. I made a copy, but the colors don't show well, that's why I brought it.”
Carlina accepted the book, sank back onto her chair, and opened it with care.
Charmer's Death (Temptation in Florence Book 2) Page 15
