A Fashion Felon in Rome

by Anisa Claire West

  “Okay,” Massimo sighed. “I don’t see how your idea could possibly get any worse. So go on.”

  “Of course we would need the Alegres’ permission to do this, but they seemed open to try any tactic to catch their son’s murderer. So I’m sure they’ll get on board,” I prefaced as Massimo persisted to look completely aghast. “My idea is to throw a party near the Tiber River where Tomaso was killed. We’ll call it a memorial service. A celebration of his life. We’ll invite everyone who he knew here in Italy. Everyone from Sophia Pucci’s posse.”

  “Okay, hang on, I think I may actually understand what you’re trying to do,” Massimo said excitedly.

  “You do?” Exit the dodo bird back to extinction.

  “Yes. You want to gather everyone together in a social setting. With some wine and good food. Everyone will be relaxed…”

  “And likely to let the truth slip in conversation,” I finished triumphantly.

  “I don’t know about ‘likely,’” Massimo argued skeptically. “But it’s possible. And as long as it’s okay with Lola and Pablo.”

  “I bet they’ll fund the whole thing,” I predicted.

  “Perhaps. It will also be interesting to see who doesn’t show up. Absence at an event like this could be even more incriminating than presence.”

  “Right,” I added. “A guilty conscience could keep the murderer away.”

  “You know, this idea of yours is actually good. It is crazy, though.” He smirked at me.

  “Just crazy enough to work,” I corrected. “Are you calling Tomaso’s parents?” I asked as Massimo reached for his phone.

  “Yes…” he stopped himself, frowning as he read a message on the screen. “I just got a text from the police.”

  “What does it say? Did they find the murderer?” I pounced eagerly.

  “No, they’ve just confirmed that Tomaso’s wallet is missing. Probably stolen. It hadn’t been found on his body and no one could locate it in his hotel room either.”

  “Do they know who stole it?”

  “No, not yet. Add that to our long list of things to figure out.”

  “Well, the stolen wallet isn’t necessarily related to the murder,” I reasoned. “It could have been stolen by a maid at the hotel or some other staff member who knew about Tomaso’s wealth.”

  “That is a possibility. A more likely possibility, though, is that the same person who snipped the brakes on Tomaso’s boat also pocketed his wallet.”

  “Really? I don’t think that makes sense,” I disagreed, starting to enjoy the inquisitive role in a case that had been thrown at me like water balloons. “Whoever cut the brakes probably didn’t want to be seen. My gut feeling is that the person got the job done really quickly, figuring out which boat Tomaso had bought and disappearing right after clipping the brakes.”

  “You’re getting better at this whole crime solving thing, you know?” Massimo looked at me with authentic admiration.

  “Maybe I’ll become a detective if fashion design doesn’t pan out,” I joked.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Massimo said soberly.

  “I was just kidding! Please! I’ve been sewing since I was 3 years old. Actually, I could hold a needle and thread long before I knew what to do with a pencil and paper!” I warmly reminisced about the cloth dolls and baby blankets my mother had taught me to sew.

  “Three years old and sewing? That would make you a prodigy.”

  “No,” I protested. “That would make my mother a good parent who showed her daughter how to be creative.”

  “You’re close to your family?” Massimo inquired.

  “Yes, very. I’m sure there will be a big spaghetti and meatball dinner at my parents’ house to welcome me home.” My stomach grumbled at the thought of my mother’s hearty Italian cooking.

  “Mmmm, I could go for some spaghetti right now. Would you like to get some dinner? We could plan the party and figure out our next move.” Massimo’s eyes transformed into pools of seduction.

  I hesitated for a few breaths, feeling like I would be cheating on Richard if I had dinner with Massimo. But it was for business purposes, right? As long as I conducted myself with decorum and kept the conversation focused on the investigation---rather than Massimo’s sexy midnight orbs---I had nothing to feel guilty about.

  “It wouldn’t be a date,” Massimo said hastily, sensing my uncertainty. “I’m not trying to take you away from your boyfriend.”

  “How did you know I have a boyfriend?” I asked.

  “It’s obvious,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Well I also wouldn’t want to take you away from your girlfriend or whoever…” I was shamelessly fishing for information, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “No lady in my life. I don’t have time. My job as a private investigator is 24/7. And it involves frequent travel. I wouldn’t be surprised if this case eventually brought me to Barcelona,” Massimo mused as my heart sank from his stony perspective on relationships.

  What is wrong with you, Gianna? I silently chided myself. Who cares if this man doesn’t have time for love? You have Richard.

  “Anyway, I’m up for dinner if you still are.” I shifted back to a neutral subject as Massimo nodded and prepared to pull out of the airport lot.

  “Andiamo,” he said. “Let’s go!”

  ***

  Hours later, Massimo and I emerged from a 4 course Italian feast. I had gloriously stuffed my face with enough carbs to give me the energy needed for an Iron Man competition. From the oil-dipped bread to the macaroni spirals in vodka sauce to the espresso-soaked tiramisu, the meal had been an exercise in overindulgence. Leaning back in the seat of Massimo’s car, I giggled as I felt the zipper of my pants pop ever so slightly.

  “Feeling giddy from the wine?” Massimo guessed.

  “Um, yeah,” I fibbed, too embarrassed to tell him I needed a bigger waistband to fit my bloated belly.

  “I guess I should get you back to your hotel room.” Massimo drove on as we passed the Fontana di Trevi, my favorite landmark in all of Rome.

  “Ooh, look how it’s lit up at night! It looks magical! All golden and shimmering,” I marveled as Massimo slowed the car down for me to get a better view.

  “Have you thrown any coins into the fountain yet?” He asked.

  “No, I haven’t. But I know about the legend. If I toss a coin into the fountain, that means I’ll be returning to Rome some day, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’ll have to be sure to throw a coin in before I go back home. Because I definitely want to come back to this beautiful city,” I breathed, noticing a pair of children licking monstrous gelato cones that dripped onto the cobblestone.

  “Yes, make sure you do that,” Massimo said with peculiar formality.

  He stayed stubbornly silent for the next few minutes until we arrived at my hotel. The prospect of returning to my room alone seemed very lonely. You’re just missing Richard, that’s all. I tried to convince myself. Richard! I realized with horror that I had forgotten to call him back like I had promised. Maybe he wasn’t on my mind that much after all…

  “Here we are. Get a good night’s sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow for the crazy party.” He grinned crookedly before resetting his features in stone.

  “I’ll try. And thank you for dinner.” I resisted the temptation to kiss Massimo on the cheek…or somewhere else.

  My jelly belly and I bounced out of the car and back to the hotel room. Before I turned out the lights, I checked my cell phone, surprised to see that Richard hadn’t called. What time was it in New York? It was after 11 pm in Rome, meaning that it was around quitting time at home. Knowing Richard, though, he was probably still holed up in his office. So I set my phone down on the nightstand, vowing to call him as soon as I could the next day.

  ***

  “A party? Really? But what will I wear?” Sophia asked in all her shallow vainglory the next day. The woman was really starting to gr
ate on my nerves, and I didn’t care anymore whether she chose my design for the Cannes Film Festival. Did I really just say that? No, scratch that. I cared very much, but I wanted to get her all stitched and buttoned up in my creation and then run for the hills.

  “Massimo and I are calling it a party,” I explained. “But for the guests who aren’t in the know, it’s a memorial service for Tomaso.”

  “Fine, fine, whatever you call it. But I have nothing to wear.” Sophia pouted like a child as she picked up my sketch pad and flipped through the pages.

  “Is that why you asked me to come to the Sheraton today?” I wondered aloud. A text from Leonard at 8:30 am had woken me from my blissful carb-induced coma. The message had been curt, simply stating that Sophia wanted to meet with me personally to discuss something. I had promptly texted Massimo to tell him to meet me at the Sheraton, but he had yet to arrive.

  “Actually, yes it is. I’m very impressed by your designs, Gianna. From the first day, I’ve had my eye on you. It’s really a pity if someone killed Tomaso to eliminate him as competition because I didn’t care for his ideas at all. Really, you’re the one who’s a threat to the others. If someone wanted to weed out the competition, they might have done better to kill you.” Sophia’s tone was even more venomous than her shocking words. Seriously, someone needed to give that woman a movie role before she completely lost her mind.

  “Well, thank you,” I struggled to find appropriate words. “I’m glad you like my designs. And I really do think that scarlet mermaid dress would look amazing on you.”

  “So do I!” Sophia’s demeanor switched like a faucet to cheerful as she absorbed the compliment. “I am going to wear your dress to the award ceremony, Gianna. You just have to bring the design to life for me. But don’t worry, I won’t tell the others. I wouldn’t want someone to come after you before you even create the dress!” Sophia gurgled with laughter.

  My jaw tightened with distress. The woman had a truly sick sense of humor. Glancing across the room, I spotted Massimo strolling in, flanked by Tomaso’s parents. Gratefully, I met them in the center of the ballroom as Sophia noisily trailed me in her pointy Prada heels.

  “You must be Tomaso’s parents!” Sophia exclaimed in Italian as the couple looked at her in confusion, clearly not understanding the language.

  Jumping in as our unofficial United Nations interpreter, Massimo translated Sophia’s words as she continued, “Don’t they know who I am?”

  “Of course they do,” Massimo assured. “You’re famous all over Europe.”

  “Well they don’t seem very excited to meet me,” she complained as my eyes widened.

  Really, her behavior was too grandiose even for a woman who had spent more than half her life in the spotlight. Revisiting the possibility that she could be the murderer, I thought of how icily and insensitively she had spoken to me. Someone with such a cavalier attitude about life could easily be the instigator of premature death.

  “If you don’t mind, we are going to steal Gianna away for a few hours. We have a lot of planning to do,” Massimo said politely as Sophia’s eyes flamed.

  “Well, I suppose that will be fine,” she said frostily.

  “The party is tomorrow,” Massimo announced. “Be there at 7 in the evening. The pier where…the tragedy occurred,” he said gently.

  “Yes, I will be there. I wouldn’t miss it,” Sophia promised, her glacial voice awakening a chill in every cell of my body.

  Chapter 8

  Dressed from head to toe in mourning black, Tomaso’s parents contrasted sharply with the turquoise waters and brilliant sky. Together, they gazed up at that radiant sky, perhaps sending love to their lost son. I breathed shakily, feeling like a fraud as I set up bottles of Limoncello and Pellegrino on a buffet table. Expressionlessly, Massimo unloaded a box of plates and flatware.

  “Did you see Tomaso’s parents?” I asked sadly.

  “Yes, but I’d rather not think about it,” he answered roughly.

  “I really hope something comes out of this big charade,” I sighed as Massimo nodded curtly but made no reply.

  A brief moment of peace was shattered by Sophia’s sweeping entrance alongside Leonard who followed her like a puppy as he always seemed to do. I wondered if Leonard had ever had an affair with Sophia. He wore no wedding band, so perhaps intimate romps were on the menu. Waving to Sophia and Leonard, I returned to the task of setting up the “party.”

  “Where is everyone?” Sophia demanded.

  “It’s only 5:30. The party starts at 7,” Massimo replied darkly.

  “But I thought there would at least be a pre-party!” Sophia exclaimed.

  “This isn’t the Oscars. There’s no pre-party. And there will be no after-party. Unless of course Tomaso’s murderer reveals himself tonight. Then I’ll be celebrating like it’s New Year’s Eve,” Massimo said, but he didn’t sound very optimistic.

  Rebuffed, Sophia declared, “Then I’ll go for a spin in one of the speed boats until the party gets started. Or perhaps I could rent a yacht. Leonard, could you see about renting me a yacht for an hour or so?”

  “I think yacht rentals are by the day, Sophia. I don’t think you can rent one for just an hour.”

  Sophia regarded her assistant defiantly as if to say, ‘I’m Sophia Pucci and I can do anything I want!’ “Leonard, don’t be a fool. Go get me a yacht. The paparazzi will have a ball filming me and publishing the pictures in the tabloids.”

  “The paparazzi?” I questioned. “That’s funny. I haven’t noticed any photographers around.”

  “That’s because they hide in the bushes!” Sophia hissed. “They only come out from hibernation when there’s a good photo op that they can sink their claws into.”

  Or maybe the paparazzi aren’t here at all except in your imagination. Maybe you’re such a washed up, delusional fool that you think the world is watching you when really everyone is looking away.

  “Oh, okay,” I shrugged. “Well enjoy your yacht ride. It’s a beautiful evening to be on the water.” I had to be civil towards the shrew if I wanted her to follow through and wear my design to Cannes. But I wasn’t going to grovel to her. Not on her fancy schmancy life.

  None too discreetly, Massimo rolled his eyes as Sophia and her loyal dog walked off the pier. “I’ll be really happy when this case is over.” He massaged his temples in a circular motion.

  “She seems to be getting worse and worse,” I pointed out.

  “That’s because the attention has shifted away from her. She can’t stand it. Attention and approbation are like food and water to her.” Massimo rolled his eyes again as I grinned.

  “That’s sad but true,” I sighed.

  An hour later, the guests started to filter in as Sophia waved theatrically to everyone from her yacht. Tomaso’s parents seemed disgusted as they watched her attention-begging sail. With drooping shoulders, they walked over to my station near the buffet, looking at the tempting array of appetizers and grimacing. Compassion pulsed through me as I knew they were too distraught to eat even one bite. I poured each of them a glass of sparkling mineral water, which they accepted with a simultaneous “gracias.”

  Massimo didn’t stay in one place for more than a minute, sleekly combing through the growing crowd and presumably eavesdropping on every nugget of conversation. Leaving my station at the buffet, I drifted over to the bar, sensing that more details would emerge over alcoholic beverages than over plates of olives and cheese.

  “Are you playing bartender tonight?” Denise asked pertly, pointing to a bottle of Pinot Grigio and gesturing for me to pour her a glass.

  “I guess you could say that,” I replied neutrally, handing her a glass of the chilled white wine.

  “This is the weirdest memorial service I’ve ever been to,” she said scornfully, touching her lips to the rim of the glass.

  “Well, this is how Tomaso’s parents wanted it. They didn’t want it to be all gloomy and depressing. They wanted it to be a celebratio
n of his life.” The lie poured out of my lips as smoothly as the Pinot Grigio had cascaded out of the bottle. Maybe Massimo was right. Maybe I wouldn’t make such a bad detective after all. Hmmmm…

  “It’s still bizarre to me,” Denise insisted, glancing up. “Oh hey, look, there’s Evelyn.”

  Cloaked in a black wraparound knit sweater, Evelyn looked somber as she approached us at the bar. “Hi ladies,” she said in a voice scarcely stronger than a whisper.

  “Are you okay?” Denise inquired softly.

  “Not really. This is so sad. I don’t even want to be here.”

  “Then why did you come?” Denise asked.

  Evelyn’s frowned deeply. “To pay tribute to Tomaso. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

  “Maybe not all of us…” Denise pointed to Sophia whose yacht was docking at the shore. Laughing and flailing around like an insane ragdoll, she looked as though she had already paid several trips to the bar.

  “She’s so inappropriate,” Evelyn shuddered. “I don’t even want her to pick my dress anymore. And if she did pick my dress, I might not even let her wear it. I have integrity.”

  I peered at Evelyn quizzically, wondering where her sudden rush of emotion and conscience was coming from. I no longer suspected that Denise had been involved with Tomaso, but it seemed increasingly likely that Evelyn had. Her emotions were raw; this was no pitch-perfect performance like the ones Sophia had been staging.

  “Why are you all dressed in black, Evelyn?” Leonard asked coldly. “Are you in mourning?”

  Ignoring his question, Evelyn walked away from the bar, heading towards the water with her head bowed. That was strange. Why does Leonard care what Evelyn is wearing? No one else seemed to notice the odd exchange as Sophia clapped her hands together like a seal would slap its flippers as she spotted a bottle of Prosecco, the Italian version of champagne.

  “Pour me a big glass, barkeep,” she squealed as I obediently filled a flute with the bubbly liquid.