The Da Vinci Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery

by Joanne Pence

  Cat was snoring loudly.

  Last evening, as it grew late, they faced the fact that Marcello most likely wasn’t going to return to his hotel. They wondered what might have happened to him, and a litany of dire thoughts came to mind.

  Near the Leonardo they found a small hotel that they expected wouldn’t check their passports the way the larger ones did. They were right.

  Angie showered and dressed, again putting on her Donna Karan pantsuit and knit top. The knit was itchy and the wool already looked limp. At least her shoes were comfortable ankle boots with stacked heels.

  She roused Cat. They had things to do—like find Marcello.

  “I feel terrible!” Cat moaned. She flopped onto her stomach, one arm over the side, then slowly dragged herself to a sitting position. She groped for thick eyeglasses on the nightstand, put them on, and gasped.

  Angie jumped to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “Look!” Cat pointed at the mirror. She was able to see herself from the bed. “My hair, my makeup! And look at my clothes on that chair! They look like I slept in them!” Her peach Chanel skirt and jacket were wrinkled, and her silk blouse looked ready to revert to being a cocoon for worms.

  “You did. On the plane.” Angie had no sympathy. She knew she looked, and felt, equally rotten.

  Cat ran her fingers through her hair, which was jutting out jagged and strawlike. “The first thing we’ve got to do is go to the shops around the Spanish Steps and Via del Corso to buy something decent to wear, and some makeup. I need a hairdresser. And let’s find a better hotel. I’m not crazy about this one.”

  “How long do you expect to be here?” Angie asked, alarmed. “I’ve got a wedding to plan and I’ve got to be back in San Francisco on Monday.”

  “Hah! You and that wedding. We’re all going to be a hundred years old before you get it worked out,” Cat scoffed, starting her morning face exercises. Between opening and closing her mouth wide, she asked, “What in the world do you need to do on Monday?”

  Angie, who had been irritated at Cat’s reaction to her wedding dilemma, suddenly smiled. “I have an interview. I’m being considered to co-author a cookbook with one of the best known chefs in the world—Jacques Poulon-Leliellul.”

  “Who?” Cat tilted her face to the ceiling. “Pooh-lone-lay-loo?” She rolled back her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

  “No! Pooh-lon-leh-lee-ai-luhl. Do you know how ridiculous you look?”

  Cat sneered. “Do you know how ridiculous his name sounds? It’s as if you’re saying ee-ai-ee-ai-oh, but with l’s in front of it. Like ‘Old McDonald’s Farm’ with a weird speech impediment.”

  “It’s not funny!” Angie fumed. Cat was hard to take at any time of the day, but in the morning before coffee, Angie had the urge to strangle her.

  Mercifully, room service arrived with the four espressos Angie had ordered. She feared one each wouldn’t be enough.

  As she drank her first cup, she studied her sister curiously. “We shouldn’t do anything but find Marcello,” she said.

  “Of course, but I detest looking sloppy. I’ve got it all worked out.” Espresso in hand, Cat headed for the shower.

  As Angie put down her empty coffee cup, she had to rethink her earlier position. Even after coffee, she had the urge to strangle Cat.

  It was night.

  Charles Arthur Swenson pulled onto his driveway, hit the garage door opener, and drove in. After turning off the ignition, he remained in the car rubbing his aching forehead. He stared, without seeing, at the far wall with its flawless workbench and master set of Snap-on tools untouched in their case.

  The day before, after getting Cat’s phone call, he’d taken off early from work to drive north of the Golden Gate to Tiburon, pick up their son, and take the boy to his in-laws in the town of Hillsborough, south of San Francisco. Afterward, he’d driven around the city and along the ocean for a couple of hours, trying to understand.

  Today, instead of going to work, he’d stayed home waiting for a phone call from Cat asking for his help, saying she needed him. Her call, when it came, was businesslike, cold, and distant. When he hung up, he went for a long drive until he realized he had nowhere to go to . . . only someplace he’d been going from.

  As he headed back home, he had to admit that even though he and Cat had been married twelve years, he’d never understood his wife. He was one of the top investment bankers in the San Francisco area, but sometimes he wondered if he had any people skills at all.

  If he had, wouldn’t his wife have talked it over with him before she rushed off to another country? Maybe asked his advice about the situation? His delicate stomach soured as the legal ramifications of all she was involved in played over and over in his mind.

  He reached up and pressed the garage door remote to close the door behind him and shut out the world.

  Why hadn’t she taken the time to explain more fully what was going on? He had a dozen questions he’d wanted to ask, but when they talked, she’d hung up quickly.

  As much as she worked with people, and spent all day on the phone or meeting them and showing off houses—and before, practically living with them as she helped them redesign and decorate their homes—she rarely said two words to him that weren’t completely necessary.

  He had told her he’d take care of Kenny while she was gone. He liked being with Kenny on those rare times when the boy wasn’t going to soccer or to basketball practice. Or taking swimming or piano lessons. Or having a “play date” or sleepover with one of his school friends. Or doing one of the myriad other things he did rather than being home with his dad so that the two of them could get to know each other better.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he and Kenny had done something together—father and son—that hadn’t been programmed for them by Cat or one of the coaches, teachers, or instructors who seemed to think they knew so much more than he did about his own son.

  Maybe they were right. What was it Cat had said to him on the phone right before she hung up?

  He finally got out of the car and shuffled across the garage to the interior door to his home. He was only forty-five, but looked a decade older. He was one of those serious, dour-looking men everyone assumed to be much older than his years. His shoulders were stooped, and he wore his forelock long and combed back in a vain but useless attempt to cover the ever-widening bald patch on his crown.

  Cat had laughed at the idea that he would take care of his own son, and said it was impossible.

  Impossible, he thought, as he opened the door and stepped into his home. The door led from the garage to a small hallway. A utility room and bathroom were on one side, a large laundry and sewing room on the other. Not that Cat ever sewed, of course. It amazed him when she did laundry. He guessed even she couldn’t justify sending Kenny’s T-shirts and jeans out to be washed.

  From the hallway, he entered the family room. A sixty-inch plasma TV was mounted high on the far wall, surrounded by an entertainment system with theater level sound. Recliners faced the TV. Cat had wanted movie theater seating, but he pointed out that they never had guests over to watch movies, so why should he sit alone surrounded by empty chairs?

  It was one of the few arguments that he had ever won with her. Probably because she didn’t care all that much.

  The house felt so very empty.

  He was used to coming home to an empty house. He’d done it many nights. Why, then, did it feel so strange?

  Was it because Cat and Kenny wouldn’t be joining him here in a few hours, or because he’d be alone for days and didn’t really understand why?

  He turned on the light in the kitchen.

  To his surprise, the doorbell rang. Nobody ever came to a house in Tiburon without phoning first.

  Unless it was one of Kenny’s little friends. That must be it, he thought, and felt almost happy to have someone to talk to, if only for a moment or two, as he went to answer the door.

  Chapter 14

  If the Italia
n police were, in fact, looking for them, they already knew they were in Rome, which meant that if she and Cat went to an area far from where they were staying, used their credit cards to buy a few necessities, and then left, they wouldn’t be giving anything away.

  They could do it, Angie thought. They were good. They’d do “drive-by shopping” to pick up underwear, cosmetics, and a simple change of clothes.

  Outside the hotel, the sun was bright as they looked for a cab. On the corner, she noticed a slightly built man with a goatee leaning against the building, and taking an interest in her and her sister. Why shouldn’t he? she told herself. They were attractive women, and he was an Italian male. There was nothing to be nervous about.

  Memories of running through that dark, creepy tunnel last night caused her to shiver.

  A taxi came by and they caught it. Angie happened to notice, as they drove off, that the goateed man put his arm out as a second cab approached. That explained why he’d been standing there. Or did it?

  The shopping area both women knew well was around the Spanish Steps and Via del Corso. That was also the area with all the big designer boutiques—Prada, Armani, Valentino—but they had neither time nor reason to shop there, which was in itself a sacrifice.

  Get in. Get out. Get Marcello.

  That was their motto.

  The first thing they bought were international calling cards. No identification required. Angie had to talk to Paavo. Eventually, they found a pay phone in the lobby of an office building. In this age of cell phones, pay phones were scarce in Rome.

  Cat went first. Since it was very late at night back home, she didn’t call Serefina. That would have aroused Salvatore’s suspicions. She phoned her husband. To her surprise, Charles didn’t answer.

  “That’s strange,” Cat said as she turned the phone over to Angie. “Charles must be staying out all night. That man! ‘When Cat’s away, the mice will play,’ they always say.”

  “Charles is no player,” Angie chuckled at the idea. Charles was about as exciting as a bowl of cream of wheat. She began to press in the multitude of numbers required with her prepaid phone card.

  “I wonder if he’s gone off with some buddies,” Cat said, her irritation increasing at the thought. “Maybe to Reno. He does have a taste for poker. Damn! I’m completely miserable and he goes off to have fun. Wait until I get my hands on him!”

  Angie stopped listening to Cat’s rants as her call connected.

  “Angie! It’s about time! Do you know how worried—” Paavo stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Are you all right? Where are you?”

  Angie assured him they were fine. She gave him the name of their hotel, as well as Da Vinci’s and the Hotel Leonardo, which he’d already discovered from Piccoletti’s store manager. With every other breath she assured him that she and Cat were quite safe, that she loved him, missed him, and he needn’t worry. They hadn’t caught up with Marcello yet, but would soon.

  “Angie, it’s not Marcello you’re following. It’s Rocco. And their mother, Flora Piccoletti, was murdered the night after the murder in the Sea Cliff.” Paavo sounded simultaneously upset, worried, tense, and angry. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s nothing you two can deal with. Come home!”

  “Oh, my God!” Angie clutched the phone tighter. “I can’t believe it. His mother?”

  “What?” Cat tugged on her arm.

  Angie turned her back to continue talking to Paavo a moment longer, then handed Cat the phone. “Paavo needs to talk to you.”

  As Cat answered Paavo’s questions about all she’d seen and done in the Sea Cliff house on the day of the murder, Angie walked around the lobby. One wall was covered with granite slabs, the wall opposite it mirrored. From a particular angle, the mirrors showed the street. As she watched the passersby, she noticed the goateed man among them, the same man who’d been outside their hotel. Not only did she recognize his face, even though he now was wearing sunglasses, but she definitely recognized his ugly blue jacket, black shirt, and clashing brown slacks. He stood across the street, smoking a cigarette and watching the office building.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. He was following them. Who could he be? He didn’t look like anyone who would be working for the police.

  Alarmed, she wanted out of there. She studied the wall directory of the building. As soon as it sounded as if Cat had finished answering questions, Angie hit an elevator button, then pulled the phone from her. “Paavo, we’ve got to go”—her mind raced for an excuse that wouldn’t worry him—“my phone card is almost out of minutes. But we’ll be home soon. I promise.” A bong told her the elevator had arrived. “I love you! ’Bye!”

  She grabbed Cat and shoved her in the compartment, then hit B, for basement. “What are you doing?” Cat screeched.

  “We were followed!”

  The basement parking garage exit took them onto a side street. She hoped that by the time the goateed man realized they were no longer in the lobby, they’d be long gone.

  “Wait! Where are we going? We haven’t done our shopping yet,” Cat said, since Angie was heading away from the shops.

  “We don’t need to. We’re going home. Didn’t Paavo tell you that Flora Piccoletti was murdered?”

  Cat grasped her arm, stopping her. “Exactly.” Her voice was low and determined. “If you would take a moment to think, to be logical, you’d realize that means the murderer is still in San Francisco! It’s not Marcello, or Rocco. We’re perfectly safe here, and I need to talk to them about the St. Peter chain.” Her face fell. “And other things.”

  “What other things?” Angie asked suspiciously.

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  That kind of answer had Angie seeing red. “I told Paavo we’d come home soon.”

  “Go.” Cat turned back toward the Via del Corso. “I’m going to buy some things I need, and remain here until I see Marcello.”

  Arms folded, Angie trudged along beside her. “Who’s following us, then?”

  “I think it’s all in your head. You know what a wild imagination you’ve got.” Cat looked completely disgusted. “Between Da Vinci’s and his hotel, I’ll find Marcello today and get this all straightened out.”

  “Then we’ll go home together?” Angie asked.

  “Of course.”

  As they retraced their steps, Angie suddenly shoved Cat into a doorway. “Look!”

  At the street corner was a thin, poorly dressed goateed man, clearly searching for someone or something. “That’s him!” Angie whispered.

  Cat watched a moment and in a hushed voice said, “You know, it’s getting close to lunchtime. Since Marcello wasn’t at his restaurant last night, he might be there during the day. We should go back.”

  Angie eyed her. “The metro’s just past the Piazza del Popolo.”

  Cat nodded. “What are you waiting for?”

  To reach Da Vinci’s restaurant from the metro’s Ottaviano station, it was necessary to walk across St. Peter’s Square. As impressive and imposing as St. Peter’s Basilica was—the largest Christian church in the world—Angie enjoyed being in the piazza even more, enclosed by the curved “arms” of Bernini’s colonnade. A hundred thousand people could fit in it.

  From there she could look up at the large rectangular building just beyond St. Peter’s, which housed the Pope’s living quarters, top floor, far right. She had once stood in the piazza as John Paul II came to his window and blessed the crowd.

  To the left of it she could see the top of the Sistine Chapel.

  Being here, she remembered her Catholic upbringing, the parochial schools she attended, some of the good-hearted nuns like Sister Mary Margaret and Sister Rachel, whom she’d come to truly love, and a few, like Sister Mary Francis, who intimidated her as only a nun could do.

  Near her, a group of nuns of the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa’s order, in their distinctive blue and white habits, strolled by. Not far from them, a priest in a full-length black cassock hurri
ed as if late for an appointment.

  Angie loved seeing the traditional clothes of nuns and priests. She loved this aspect of the Church, the part with the mystery and miracles, the pageantry, formality, and rules. Much of that had been lost in many dioceses as they tried to become more “modern.” An inkling of the old, stricter religion seemed to be in the wind these days, struggling to come back, along with the old mass, the saints and their visions, the rules, and even the guilt when those rules were broken.

  Something about the serious, almost haunted look of the priest caught her eye, and she quickly realized why. He was the one who’d been dining alone at Da Vinci’s last night. He crossed the piazza without hesitation, heading surely and directly toward the Swiss Guards who protected the entrance to the private sections of Vatican City. They allowed him to pass with a simple nod.

  “We’ve still got some time before Da Vinci’s opens for lunch,” Angie said. “Let’s go inside St. Peter’s. I’d like to see it again.”

  They had to go through metal detectors to enter the church, but everything that could set one off had long before been taken from them, so they proceeded with no trouble.

  From the moment Angie crossed the portico to enter St. Peter’s, she was awed, as always, by the sheer size of the structure. The marble-and-gold-filled church was so massive that the people standing under its dome looked about a foot tall. The tomb of St. Peter was directly under the dome, but many other Popes and saints had been laid to rest in the basilica, both on the main floor and in grottoes below it. The body of Pope John XXIII was in a glass case for all to see. Many chapels lined the side walls, and statues were everywhere. Those placed on the walls were actually larger than the ones at ground level, to lessen the perspective of the height of the building. At the top of the walls, circling the entire church, were the words Jesus spoke to Peter, beginning Tu es Petrus . . . Each letter was six feet tall.