Chapter 24

Paul and I left the Oltrarno district, crossed the bridge—one of several bridges that spanned the Arno—and strolled along the river on the north side. Judging from the crowds—all ages, more locals than tourists it seemed—strolling along the Arno was a highly popular Sunday afternoon pastime. It was another sun-splashed day, with gentle breezes coming off the river. Their leisurely pace and relaxed faces suggested people without a care in the world. I wished for that serenity, wished that here in this amazing city with this amazing man, I could put Sophie’s death out of my mind for a few hours—and shake the thought that her death might have had some connection to Bianca’s disappearance. Alex was always telling me that I was too nosy, that I involved myself too much in other people’s problems. I couldn’t help thinking I should have involved myself more in whatever was happening with Sophie.

Along the way we paused for Paul to snap a few photos with his phone, with the bridge in the background. A moment later, he showed me his pictures, all of them with me in the forefront.

“I like this one best of all,” he said. In that particular shot, my expression as I looked out across the Arno was one of mild preoccupation, but it was not a bad photo of me, in the context of the brilliant setting.

I took out my camera, aimed, and clicked, catching Paul’s surprise as he looked up from his phone.

“It’s only fair,” I said.

And then—not like me to be so spontaneous—I stepped forward, raised my face to his, and kissed him.

Paul Broussard wasn’t often taken off guard, so it made me smile to see his momentary astonishment, but he responded with characteristic aplomb. “I am not sure why I deserved that, but I do not need to know.”

He knew.

We walked all the way to Ponte Vecchio, the covered bridge with its shops known for items of gold and silver. Paul was looking for a gift for his friend who was about to turn ninety.

He asked for my advice. “I cannot buy art for Salvatore. He is an artist, a master in his medium. I cannot give him wine. He has a wine cellar that rivals many fine restaurants. What does one give a man of ninety years? He has everything he needs and desires.”

I was no help. In the end, Paul came upon an amazing find. In one of the shops that sold all manner of antique and rare items, he discovered an art book with a section about Salvatore Corsini. “It is a first edition, 1951, and this”—Paul pointed to a photograph on a page full of photos—“this is the early work that was, as one says, the ticket to fame for Salvatore. He used glass at that time, not the porcelain tiles that he would later use.” Set against a backdrop of a sunset, the mosaic was an old man touching the cheek of an old woman. It was inspired by Salvatore’s grandparents, Paul explained. I thought of Norman Rockwell’s work, but even in a photograph taken when color photography was still in its infancy, the shimmer of the tiny pieces of glass that made up the design gave the piece an ethereal quality. It was a perfect gift.

The shopkeeper was only too happy to giftwrap the book, but he was by himself and other customers were waiting to make purchases. Though the conversation was in Italian, I could tell that the shopkeeper was worried that he might lose the sale. Paul told him we would return shortly. The man gushed, “Grazie! Grazie!” No price tag had shown the price of the book, but that in itself was a sure sign that the first edition cost a fistful of Euros.

As we were waiting, passing the time by window shopping, I noticed Varinia Santoro pushing Carlo’s wheelchair. I mentioned to Paul that I knew them from the convent. His prompt remark was that the wheelchair was “quite old fashioned.” I had thought the same thing. The wheelchair depended entirely on Varinia’s strength to push it. A newer, motorized wheelchair would have been a great advantage. But Varinia seemed strong enough to handle it. She steered the chair into one of the shops, and I was left to wonder, once again, what was the meaning of the exchange on Saturday morning between Varinia and Sophie.

When Paul had his gift, we started back along the Arno, the way we had come. It was just a quarter past two, but I felt myself fading. I’d had no sleep last night, and the mid-morning espresso, however stimulating at the time, was no longer having the same effect. I was delighted when Paul suggested a slight detour that would take us to his favorite gelateria in Florence. Because it was a couple of blocks off the street that bordered the Arno, tourists often missed it, Paul explained, but Florentines knew it well.

He indicated a café we were just passing. “Or we can have lunch now and gelato later.”

I voted for gelato now, and Paul agreed.

Ordering was part of the fun. The young woman with a ponytail of black curls spilling down her back let us taste several flavors. I settled on super chocolate—tartufo, it was called—and Paul chose some fantastic mixture called zuppa inglese, which he described as custard, chocolate, and crème, with bits of cake. The half dozen small tables and chairs were occupied, so we walked on with our cones, north, away from the Arno. Again, not heading anywhere special.

“How far are we from the Piazza della Repubblica?” I asked.

“Ten minutes, perhaps fifteen,” Paul said.

I told him I’d seen Cristiano outside the convent, just moments after Sophie had died.

“Who is Cristiano?”

“Owner of the tour company, Vivre la Toscana!”

“The cooking class,” Paul said, with a nod that seemed to say Ah, yes.

“And the Vespa tour,” I said. “That was why Sophie was at the villa on Friday.”

“And she argued with the woman who is now missing,” Paul said. “But this man, Cristiano—I don’t follow. Why did he go to the convent?”

“I intend to ask him. What I do know is that Cristiano is an ill-tempered man who is much too old to be taking out an eighteen-year-old girl, getting her drunk,” I said. “Too old to be involved in any way with Sophie.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he had something to do with her death?”

I thought about it and finally decided that I couldn’t imagine how. If he had been to her room, there was still the matter of the locked door. That was a hard one.

We finished our gelato cones and threw the napkins in a trash can. “Why were you asking about Piazza della Repubblica?” Paul said.

“That’s where Vivre la Toscana! is located,” I said.

“And you want to ask questions of this man, Cristiano.”

That was the thought that had flitted through my mind. I reached for Paul’s arm. “Cristiano may or may not have something to do with Sophie’s death, but whatever he knows—I don’t see the police questioning him.”

“I believe you are right about the police,” Paul said. “If this man can put your mind at rest, we should go to see him now.”