Sister Isabella was used to getting up early, but this hour was inhuman. Well before the first cock crowed, her alarm clock had hauled her pitilessly out of sleep. Normally she enjoyed the peace and quiet of the dawning day, when only the call of the scops owl could be heard from the church tower, mingling with the cicadas' morning concert.
But that morning it seemed to her as if she had only just fallen asleep the moment she was awakened.
The Caterina market opened at seven. That meant she had to be in the village an hour before that to get everything ready. Like the village itself, the market was named for Saint Catherine, the patron saint of virgins. Isabella knew the story. Legend had it that she bested fifty pagan scholars in a religious disputation. Tragically, she was beheaded in the course of her martyrdom, and milk is said to have flowed from her wounds instead of blood. She didn't know quite what to make of that, but this morning she had neither the time nor the inclination to delve deeper into the myth of Catherine's sainthood. After all, everything had to be set up and decorated before the stall opened. The sisters had given her detailed instructions and lots of well-intentioned advice last night – but that didn't change the fact that she now had to take care of everything on her own.
Since dawn, she had been standing behind the wooden stall on which all the convent's products were neatly arranged: wines, brandies, olive oil from her own cultivation, jams, homemade bread and at least a dozen kinds of pesto.
All this because she had let Sister Hildegard catch her nosing around in Raffaella's cell.
On the other hand, she was not entirely unhappy about her new responsibility: outside the convent's walls, she could get a lot more investigating done.
She had learned from Matteo that the young woman who was looking for Sister Raffaella worked at the Hotel La Vetta. And this hotel was directly opposite the piazza, meaning Isabella would have a perfect opportunity to observe it.
She knew that Matteo had already paid a visit yesterday, but without any success. So once again she would have to take matters into her own hands. She sighed deeply. What was the advantage of having a carabiniere on her side if his investigation was going nowhere? After not hearing from him all day yesterday, it was her turn to pick up the phone and ask about the state of the case. She couldn't help but feel that Matteo wasn't taking this very seriously.
And anyway: her stall couldn't have offered a better view of the hotel. When the doors slid open, she could see right into the reception area. And in it, she had spotted a young, pretty woman with striking blonde hair standing behind the counter for an hour. The same one who had asked about Sister Raffaella the day before yesterday: Aurora Rossi.
So far, however, there was nothing interesting to see. People were occasionally coming in and out, carrying suitcases into the hotel or dragging them out.
But her stall was bustling with activity. She hadn't expected that people would be so wild about the convent's produce. The second coach had just arrived with tourists from Holland. Or Poland. She wasn't sure, and she couldn't tell which it was from the language. Jars of preserves and one bottle of grappa after another were bought as souvenirs. Isabella advised her scrupulously polite customers using broken English and a variety of gestures.
She enjoyed selling; and it was completely different from her normal routine within the cloisters. She could well understand why Sister Raffaella had enjoyed this work so much, and why she had always volunteered for it.
Most of her fellow sisters would have been horrified at the thought of spending so much time outside the convent. For them, their routines of work and prayer were sacrosanct. But Isabella didn't take such a narrow view: she had nothing against a little variety.
Especially given that the convent stall was right in the middle of the market square, in the midst of the hubbub of village life.
Right next door there was a beautifully laid out stall of a local hippy commune, selling their colourful handicrafts. There were also lots of batik cloths and patchwork quilts, which were not exactly to Isabella's taste, but very pretty to look at. They brought a splash of colour that seemed almost exotic, and made the market a touch more exciting. To the left of the convent stall was a large fruit and vegetable stand, whose owner was braying about his tomatoes as if his life depended on it.
Isabella just soaked up the hustle and bustle. The noise of the cars chugging along Via di Romagna at walking pace, awkwardly manoeuvring around crazily parked delivery vans – diligently honking their horns to avoid knocking over unwary market vendors. All those people talking in so many different languages. Sister Raffaella had said several times that some people in the village were annoyed by the crowds of tourists that the buses brought to the Caterina market three times a week. That was something Isabella couldn't get her head round. The visitors made sure that the small craft businesses and workshops flourished; they created jobs. And in the end, everyone benefited from that.
The few hours were enough for Isabella to know that she loved market work.
Or she would, if only it wasn't so hot. The awning of the stall shielded her from the worst of the sun, but she was still growing warmer and warmer under her dark habit. To keep from melting completely, she avoided any unnecessary movement and took great care not to step out of the shade.
An elderly couple was standing in front of her, discussing in a language she didn't understand, presumably about what kind of pesto they should take home. Isabella was only half following their conversation, as something was happening at the hotel. A rather posh-looking man in a well-tailored suit had entered the foyer. He had longish hair, greying at the temples, and a dark beard. To Isabella, his overall appearance seemed – she couldn't think of a better word – dashing.
Moreover, the man immediately caught her eye because he was the first person who had walked into the hotel that day without a suitcase or travel bag.
The doors slid open and she saw him walking straight towards the reception. Something about his gait alarmed her. His movements were decisive and rapid, even violent.
Isabella blinked hard to get a better look at Aurora's face. Until now, she had greeted every guest with a broad smile, but now her face was frozen – her features looked almost fearful.
All too soon, the front doors slid shut again. Sister Isabella swore inwardly and crossed herself swiftly to atone for the hastily uttered curse.
The pesto couple demanded her attention and asked her to enter the ingredients into a translation app on her smartphone. In between typing, Isabella kept trying to catch a glimpse of the hotel's interior. But the glass doors remained closed, so nothing could be seen.
"Levistico?" the man asked in broken Italian.
"Che cos'è quello?"
Isabella tried English. "Lovage." She hoped that was the right word, anyway.
The man translated for his wife, saying something that sounded to Isabella like “larvae”, but the woman showed no signs of comprehending that, either. He turned back to Isabella and said something, but she was not listening, because just at that moment the hotel doors had slid back open.
She stood on tiptoes and craned over the couple's shoulders. Now it was her turn to acquire something tasty.
Aurora and the gentleman were having an animated argument and the shouting was so loud that snatches of words saying carried as far as her stall. She couldn't make anything out clearly, but it sounded angry and not at all pleasant. It was only the man who was screaming. Aurora, on the other hand, seemed cowed and close to tears.
"All right, we'll take it."
She carried on looking right past the couple in front of her.
The elegantly dressed man turned away with a foul gesture, leaving behind a completely distraught Aurora. Isabella had not been mistaken. The young woman had indeed been at the point of tears, and now she was openly weeping.
The poor thing, she thought pityingly. She would have loved to rush over and offer her comfort – and find out what it was that she was so upset about.
The man stormed out of the hotel and crossed the street without even glancing at the traffic. One car honked its horn and was rewarded with another obscene gesture.
"We'll take it."
"Sorry, what?"
"They're saying they'll take it!" An amused voice piped up from behind. "You'll never make the convent any money with an attitude like that."
"Oh, Sister Agnieszka, it's you. I was just distracted."
"I could see that. If I had known you would be so absent-minded about working at the stall, I wouldn't have bothered persuading the Abbess to be so lenient with you.”
"You did that?"
Agnieszka grinned. "Someone had to put in a good word."
Flustered, Isabella collected the money from the elderly couple and threw in a small bottle of olive oil as a thank you. The man and the woman thanked her profusely and waved at her for a long time as they walked on. Now her view of the reception was clear, but Aurora's aggressor had also vanished. She briefly toyed with the idea of asking Agnieszka if she could cover her at the stand for a moment. She would have loved to talk to Aurora. But the nun beat her to it.
"We urgently need a replacement for Raffaella. It is not right that on top of my administrative duties I should have to take care of all our groceries as well. And I also have to run the convent library. Do you have any idea how exhausting it all is?" She heaved a theatrical sigh and wiped imaginary sweat from her forehead.
"It's not like I can find everything we need at the market; I also have to go round the shops in the city centre. And all that on foot."
Isabella looked at her in surprise. "You could have taken a bike."
"Oh, don't be horrid, you know very well that I can't ride a bike."
Isabella pulled an apologetic face. She hadn't thought about it at all, because in her universe it was simply inconceivable that there were people who couldn't ride a bicycle.
"And what's more, I always have to rush back to the kitchen to get the ingredients ready in time for Sister Hildegard to make lunch." She shot Isabella a sharp look: "And you know how grumpy she gets when she's kept waiting."
Isabella laid a compassionate hand on Agnieszka's shoulder.
"I'm sure you'll make it in time."
She had to stifle a smile because she knew that any further comment would only rile Agnieszka up even more. But actually, that was exactly what Isabella liked so much about her fellow sister: she wore her heart on her sleeve and said what she thought.
"Well, I'll be on my way then." With an exaggerated groan, she grabbed the two plump, overflowing wicker baskets and left Sister Isabella alone at the stand.
As she watched Sister Agnieszka leave, she decided that she would teach her how to ride a bike. It couldn't be that difficult.
She was about to reach for her phone to tell Matteo about the argument she had witnessed when the doors of the hotel slid open once more. This time, it was Aurora Rossi's turn to storm out and run away, still crying.