“I guess. What do you do in California?” Lola asked.
“Not much really. The business is being sold. I’m just sort of hanging around until everything is wrapped up then I’ll need to decide what to do with the rest of my life.”
“Oh, you also have a business? What kind?”
“It’s not exactly my business.” Oh, heck, what difference did it make anyway? “It was Paola’s business. Paola’s and her partners’. West Coast Software.” She ended in a whisper. Anything to do with her mother made her misty and sad.
“Software. Interesting. A lot more impressive than my business.”
“The Lanza Stuzzicadenti factory. Who’s running it now your dad and Vittorio are gone?”
Lola removed her sunglasses slowly and deliberately, laid them on the table then stretched that long neck until her face was inches from Mina’s. “You are looking at her.”
“Oh, my. Congratulations. I’m impressed. Good for you, Lola. You’ll have to give me a tour before I leave. I’ll take some pictures to show my friends in Orange County. They probably would never guess toothpicks are being made in Italy. Not that I know much about toothpicks at all.”
Lola relaxed against the chair. A satisfied smile softened her expression. The answer must have been to her liking. “I employ eighty-five people.”
Mina opened her wallet, but Lola wiggled no-no with her finger, dropped some paper money on the table next to the stem glass with the bright red lipstick on the rim. They left. No sign of Enzo.
The BMW was parked fairly close but not close enough. Everyone seemed to be staring at them from across the piazza or from behind windows. The women might have been curious about the new face in town, but Mina was willing to bet the men who could see at all were more interested in Lola’s curvy hips. Art in perfectly-rehearsed motion.
…stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast. The Eagles were back with their dark commentary on the California lifestyle.
“How come you like American songs so much?”
“American songs? Hotel California is so much more than a song.” Lola’s interpretation was obviously different than Mina’s. “It’s an anthem, it is a—that’s it, that’s what we are going to do tonight.”
“We? Tonight? Who are you talking to?” The caffeine kicked in, no more well-trained puppy.
“I’m taking you to the California Bar and Grill. You’ll thank me for it. You will.”
“Oooh, slow down. Where is this place and what’s so special about it? I’m not saying for sure I’m going, but I’m open to new experiences. So, tell me.” Convince me to go. I could use the distraction.
“Like the name says, it’s a bar but they also serve food. In Vicenza, close to Caserma Ederle, you can mingle with your countrymen.”
“My what?”
“Americans. Soldiers. They come from the Army base. It’s going to be so much fun. Pretend you don’t understand English so we can find out what they are saying about us. They speak too fast for me to understand. Ahaha! Yes, fun, fun.”
“It’s an Italian bar where G.I.’s hang out? Aren’t you a little old for that? I may be wrong, but I think the average age of the newly enlisted men is what? Nineteen? Not even old enough to drink.”
“They drink plenty. This is Italy. If they can pay for the alcohol they are old enough to drink. Besides, some are older, but I’m not so interested in any of them. I have my eyes on the bartender.”
“This is sort of funny, Italian damsel goes to California Bar and Grill to meet an Italian gentleman.”
“I’m not into gentlemen, and he is not Italian.”
“Now it’s getting interesting. Tell me more. I repeat, I’m not saying I’ll go, but you definitely know how to spice up a tale.”
Lola’s chest rose by a couple of inches. They were now parked in front of Mina’s place, chatting. The music was off; the engine wasn’t.
“I go there once or twice a month, sometimes I get lucky and meet a cool outsider. By that I mean someone who doesn’t belong to the world of nineteen-year-olds. Other times I leave alone. When Nick appeared behind the bar, I was hooked.”
“Nick? His name is Nick? He could be American. Anyway, why do you need me around if you two are dating?”
“We aren’t, not yet. I need you to talk to him and tell me if you think he is American.”
“Excuse me? How am I supposed to know? Why don’t you ask him?”
“I did, but he is—evasive. When he talks, he doesn’t seem to say much. Not sure how to explain. That’s probably why I’m so smitten. He’s mysterious, and I’m used to getting what I want.”
“He told you he didn’t want to go out with you?”
“No, not at all. Aren’t you listening? Any day now, he’ll walk me out and ask for my phone number. How can he resist? I believe he’s just being cautious, probably been burned once or twice.”
“How old is this—cautious bartender?”
“I’m guessing late thirties. He only works the evening shift. Don’t know where he lives, but he is electrifying.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t spike your drinks with little pills?”
“Pills? What pills?”
“Relax, Lola. I’m kidding. Okay, you have me curious. I’m going. Tell me when and where.”
“I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty. Please wear real clothes. Try to look—local, you know? Skirt? High heels? Makeup? And do something with your hair.”
Mina nodded, second thoughts sneaking in. What was she getting into?
A bicycle came up the street, Emilia pedaling away, her long skirt puffed up like a balloon. Perfect timing.
“Oh, here is Emilia,” Mina said.
Lola looked around at Emilia, and in a flash, went from a vibrant, animated woman to a cold, waxen statue. Mina was barely out of the car and closing the door before Lola peeled away in a cloud of exhaust and burning rubber.
Emilia stopped beside Mina and dismounted the bike, planting her feet firmly on the ground. Her eyes followed the back end of the convertible until it was nothing but a red dot on the horizon.
“What was that all about?” Mina asked.
“Loredana la puttana.”
“Did you just call her puttana?”
Emilia nodded, still staring down the road.
“Whoa, you insult people in rhyme? Loredana the whore?”
A meow. Mina looked down. Fufa was curled inside the wire basket attached to the handlebar. “Oh, Dio mio! You ride with your cat in the basket?”
“Fufa gets the front row seat. Groceries take the back. I do the pedaling. How long have you been hanging around with that murderess?”
“Ohhh, wait, wait, puttana? Murderess? What’s going on here? I get it you two don’t like each other but…”
“No buts. She killed her brother and I intend to prove it before I die.” Her breathing came in waves, deep and protracted. Her face was full of anger. “Are you hungry? Let’s go upstairs. I’ll cook, and we’ll talk.” Emilia shook her head and smiled. Lola seemed forgotten.
Did Fufa understand Italian? At the word upstairs, she leapt from the basket and headed for the front door.
“Mina, why don’t you unlock the door? I’ll go around back and put away my bike.”
“Do you need help with the groceries?”
“I can carry the groceries and—you, too.” She flexed her chubby arms and Mina laughed. “Let’s go.” Emilia headed toward the back of the building.
Was there a different way to get in? She should ask.
While Mina fiddled with the stubborn lock, impatient Fufa pushed her muzzle against her ankle.
By the time she managed to unlock the door, Emilia waited in the lobby.
“I didn’t know there was a back entrance,” Mina said.
“Yeah, through the garages.”
“You have garages?”
They climbed the stairs. Fufa led the way. “Used to be individual storage for each condo. It made m
ore sense to convert it into parking space. Residents can decide how to use their own assigned area. We all know and trust each other. Never had any problem.”
“And you park your bicycle instead of a car.”
“No, I park my bicycle next to my car.”
“You have a car?”
“Of course, but who needs a car to get around this small town? Wait. Don’t say it. I know—plenty of lazy bums.”
“Emilia, where is everybody? I haven’t seen anyone else in the building except you and Fufa.” They reached the third level, Emilia’s front door was unlocked. As usual, Fufa headed on in.
“Well, the small condo beneath yours belongs to Signora Beatrice, a widow. She’s in Milan with her daughter. Her first grandchild is due any day. I doubt she’ll be back before September. Maurizio and Clara Rossi, who live in the larger condo, are probably on one of their organized trips. They’re retired and belong to a senior citizens’ travel group. They take short trips, three to four days. You’ll get to meet them soon. I’m cooking some chicken and fresh zucchini. But that’s it, young lady. Tomorrow we’ll go grocery shopping for you even if I have to drag you there. Understood?”
Mina nodded, but something else was eating at her. “Emilia, you need to tell me more about why you think Lola killed her brother. Didn’t they get along? I’m supposed to go out with her. Is it safe?”
“Vittorio had been stringing the Christmas lights for a couple of years. He could afford to hire some one to do it but wanted to maintain the family tradition. He was very athletic, coordinated.” She sounded so sad. “A wise and caring young man with a great sense of responsibility. Why would he go hang Christmas decorations at six o’clock in the morning? It was still dark. The ground was frozen. Not only that, but apparently the metal ladder had been left out all night and had ice on the rungs.”
“You don’t think he fell off the ladder?”
“If he did, he had some help. Of course he was taken to the hospital but was pronounced dead. He was in the crypt within forty-eight hours. No autopsy, nothing. A tragic accident? No, a convenient death. Twenty years ago I could call on judges, senators, open an investigation. Now I’m old. Most of my friends in law enforcement are dead or retired. The whore got away with it. Or so she thinks.”
Emilia’s passion enthralled Mina. Was there more to the deeply-rooted personal hatred, or was it possible Emilia was right? Was Vittorio murdered, and did Lola have something to do with it?
“Aren’t you giving Lola too much credit? If he was murdered, it sounds like the whole town was in on it.”
Emilia sliced the zucchini with such great vigor, Mina flinched with each stroke. “Careful, Emilia, you’ll cut your fingers.”
It was as if Emilia hadn’t heard. “Lanza Stuzzicadenti employs a lot of local people. You could say their financial well-being depends on that business.”
“But wasn’t Vittorio the boss?”
“Yes and no. Six months before his accident, he put Lola in charge of personnel. On a salary. That must have burned her pride. She felt entitled to ownership. A month to the day after the funeral, two employees got a big promotion. One was the son of the Maresciallo, the chief of our police. The other was the girlfriend of the young doctor who signed Vittorio’s death certificate. And la puttana inherited the business.”
“Dio mio, you make a good case for murder. This is bad. I’m supposed to go out with her this evening to some American-Italian joint in Vicenza. After this, I’m not sure I should. After the way she drove off, maybe I’ll get lucky and she won’t pick me up.”
“Oh, she’ll call you from down the street. Don’t worry.”
“Call me how?” The aroma of fried chicken and olive oil began to fill the apartment. “Mina, do me a favor, open the terrace door or the whole place will smell of fried food for days.”
Mina got up and walked to the terrace. “What’s wrong with the smell of good food?”
Finally Emilia smiled. “You do know there’s a phone in your place, right? It works. The professor doesn’t care if you use it, as long as you don’t make long distance phone calls, like say, to boyfriends across the ocean? I’ll write down the number for you, and my number also. Anyway, Lola will probably call you from her telefonino. You should go. Have a good time.”
“You don’t think it’s dangerous to go running around with her?”
“No, of course not.” Emilia dished up the chicken and turned with a flourish, the platter held high in front of her. “Unless you have something she wants.”
Chapter 5
The thirty-minute drive to Vicenza turned out to be more interesting than anticipated, even if she had to pass the “looking like a local” test.
Lola’s exotic perfume permeated everything in the car, and the whole idea of going to a bar to meet a bartender seemed silly in retrospect. But seeing the changes ten years brought to the small towns dotting the countryside made it worth it. The convertible glided past the old red brick train stations, one bordering the main road in each town, no matter how small. The name of the town was painted in large letters on the wall facing traffic. Buses replaced trains, and the one-room stations became obsolete, but not for long. They were being reinvented as small boutiques and ice cream parlors with sidewalk seating. One had even become an arcade.
“It’s amazing.” Waiting for a traffic light to change, Mina watched teenagers, in jeans and logo shirts like their American counterparts, gather under the neon lights outside the arcade.
“What? That finally someone figured out how to get rid of the railroad tracks from the middle of the roads?” Lola asked.
The sun prepared for its daily disappearing act in a burst of fiery color, and Mina found herself studying Lola’s profile bathed in all that rosy, fading light. Could she be a killer? Of her twin brother? Murdering someone in plain sight couldn’t be that simple. She would have needed help. How could she have found such help in a town where everyone knew each other from birth?
Or was it just that Emilia was ticked off by Lola’s self-centered behavior? So what if she liked to have more sex than the average woman? What was average? She was certainly not one to judge. The last time Mina had sex was that one magic night of lust with Diego. Clear your mind.
By the time they reached the city I Colli Berici, the hills crowning the southern edge of town had taken on the same hue as the sunset. Darker shades of red filled the hollows, and white sheer rocks defied the falling darkness.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Lola said.
“I’m overwhelmed. In some ways I noticed so many changes, and yet, some things are as I remember. Light blue looks very good on you.” Compliments generally went a long way toward keeping the Lolas of the world happy.
“Thank you. Did you notice my earrings? Aquamarines, match my dress.” No compliment was returned. That didn’t seem to be part of Lola’s personality.
The clothes Mina brought from the States were practical summer dresses. Lola would find them dull, without a hint of glamour or sex appeal–except for the slinky cream-colored halter dress purchased a year earlier at a Fourth of July sale. She must have gained weight since she bought the dress because it fit more snugly around her hips than she liked.
Lola lent her a beige silk shawl to drape around her shoulders, and while Mina hated the look of the thing, it did feel good. Italian summer weather was much cooler than June in California. The long fringe bordering the shawl reminded her of old pictures of flower children from the sixties. The Summer of Love. With her straight brown hair, her face clean with only a hint of mascara, and the vicious stiletto heels, Mina didn’t feel sexy. Emotion was always part of her, like a second skin, but this wasn’t likely to be her Summer of Love. Love seemed in short supply this evening.
She yawned.
“You aren’t falling asleep on me, are you? Remember, we only speak Italian. I’ll order your drink if you don’t know what to pick. We’ll sit at the bar, and you keep Nick busy with questions. I’ll pre
tend to be indifferent. I’ll act just as mysterious as he does. That should get his attention. You know how competitive men are. They all think they’re our heroes and saviors.” The sarcasm suited her as well as her bouncy curls.
Mina could just imagine the young, lonely G.I.s’ reaction to this blonde she-wolf in tight clothes.
By the time Lola parked the BMW in a paid parking lot, the street lamps cast wide shadows across sidewalks and arched porticos. The city center had been converted to one-way roads with some areas closed to motorized traffic altogether. Few people walked the streets. It was dinnertime in Italian households.
Nothing looked familiar, and she didn’t come prepared for a long walk. If only she had her dependable little VW Bug. Maledizione. Why did she wear high heels? Dress like a local? Lola had neglected to mention the cobblestone streets. Perfect for Roman chariots, hardly acceptable for three-inch heels. Lola strode ahead with the determination of a woman on a take-no-prisoners mission, while Mina scampered and wobbled to keep up with her.
“Where the hell is this Hotel Cal—I mean California Bar and Grill?”
“Around the corner.” Lola never turned around or slowed her pace.
“Ahhh!” Mina’s heel caught between the stones and the shoe came off. The street surface felt cold, hard and sticky against the ball of her foot. Double damn.
Lola stopped but made no move to help.
Mina was tempted to remove the other shoe and go barefoot. Common sense and the dirty pavement ruled. She put the shoe back on and forged ahead, but now the footwear felt different, a little wobbly. Great. To her amazement they turned the corner, and in a split second everything changed.
Asphalt paved the wide streets. The buildings had fewer arches, more glass. Young people lingered around a well-lit entrance. No cars in sight. A bicycle leaned against the building. A marquee in flashing red lights spelled out California Bar and Grill, marking the spot. Welcome to G.I. mecca.
Lola slowed, allowing Mina to catch up. Her face reflected no emotion; her eyes bored right into Mina’s when she said, “Remember, no English.”
Italian Summer (Mina's Adventures Book 3) Page 3
