Chapter 34

I heard rattling at my door and opened it to find Luigi with a ladder. His string of Italian was clearly an apology. Either he hadn’t known I was in the room or he was sorry he’d made so much noise or sorry he hadn’t knocked. Pointing, explaining, he got the message across that he wanted to clean the glass over my door, the transom, as he’d done up and down the hall. I said, “No problem,” making gestures to indicate he should go ahead, and his big smile indicated that he understood. The language barrier had not proven to be an impossible obstacle in this case.

I closed the door so Luigi could position the ladder. A moment later I saw his face above the door. He was smiling at me, using a squirt bottle and cloth, wiping the glass. I sat on the side of my bed, thinking about the transom, open at about a forty-five-degree angle. The space was too small—too awkward—for anyone to crawl through it. But if someone had a ladder, he might climb up and toss something onto the bed. A heavy barbell-like object with a key attached.

Another thought rocketed through my mind: Cat burglar. A cat burglar would need some kind of equipment. A rope? Something at the end of it to secure it to the wood frame of the transom? I didn’t know how these things worked, but I could imagine possibilities. Luigi had already cleaned the transom above Sophie’s door, so there would be no fingerprints on the glass, but a cat burglar would wear gloves anyway, wouldn’t he?

Luigi’s face disappeared after a few minutes’ work, and I hurried to my door. I managed to make him understand that I wanted him to move the ladder to room twelve. I think he tried to tell me he was finished with that window, but we set up the ladder and I began to climb. I don’t know what else Luigi was saying, but the anxiety in his voice made sense. If a guest fell off his ladder, he’d be in trouble. I was careful as I examined the glass and the area all around the transom. No marks on the wood that made me suspect someone had been rappelling. It would be easy to get the perfect trajectory from here and toss the key on the bed. That much, I confirmed.

But why would a cat burglar murder Sophie? Who would have access to a ladder, anyway? Or time to set it up after pushing Sophie out the window? None of my theories made any sense.

I thanked Luigi and said goodbye. No doubt he was glad to get away from me, with my crazy ideas. I had learned nothing. Maybe I would learn something from Bianca or Marisa.

* * * * *

I found the bed and breakfast, Residenza Eduardo, but Bianca was not there. Eduardo—I assumed the handsome man who greeted me was the owner—spoke good English and maybe because I was so sorry that I’d missed Bianca, he was more forthcoming than I might have expected. Yes, Signora Moretti had been there, but she had left this morning. He and his wife were very fond of Signora Moretti. She came to Florence often and always stayed with them.

Then a woman wearing rhinestone-rimmed glasses, apparently his wife, joined us. “How do you know Bianca?” she asked, and I could see she would need a little more convincing.

“I know all the Morettis,” I said. “I was at the villa twice last week—and I was hoping to see Bianca again before I go home. I had some questions about the museum in Sienna.” I don’t know where that came from—just the sudden memory that Bianca had mentioned going to a board meeting at the museum in Sienna. “You don’t know if she’s still in Florence, do you?”

The woman adjusted her glasses and narrowed her eyes, studying me. “Perhaps you can reach her by telephone,” she said. No way I’d know how to reach Bianca by telephone, and this smart woman knew it. I thanked the couple and went on my way.

* * * * *

I had better luck at Vivre la Toscana! Marisa was there, and Cristiano was not. I had managed to come at a slow, quiet time.

Marisa greeted me from behind the counter. “Jordan! I was hoping I would see you again.” She spoke to the other young woman in a green tee shirt and picked up something before she came out from behind the counter. “You did not get the recipes from the cooking class.” Her expression was sympathetic, as if to say, I wish the cooking class had been a more pleasant experience for you. She handed me a small spiral-bound booklet.

I thanked her and told her I looked forward to trying out some of these wonderful recipes at home. “Do you have time to talk?” I asked. She directed me to the green plastic chairs next to the rack of brochures that advertised their diverse Tuscan experiences. I asked, “Did you hear about the girl named Sophie? She was on the Vespa tour Friday.”

“Cristiano told me what happened,” she said. “Such a sad thing. Yes, I remember her. She came here one day and said she had gone to our website and had reserved a place on the Vespa tour. She asked some questions, and then she stayed for quite some time, hanging about, as you say.”

I didn’t correct her. She had the right idea—hanging out or hanging around. “She told me she had wanted to stay in a villa in Tuscany but did not have enough money,” Marisa said. “She had a room in a convent.” That was a twist of the truth, but Sophie probably didn’t want Marisa to know she’d already communicated with Angelica Moretti. Marisa continued, “When Cristiano told me what happened to her at Convento di Santa Francesca Firenze, I realized that was where you and your uncle were staying, also. You must have known her.”

“Yes. I was fond of Sophie, and I’m trying to understand what happened,” I said.

“Cristiano said she took her own life,” Marisa said.

“The police seem to think so. I’m no expert, but she didn’t seem suicidal to me.” I shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, considering how I might draw information from Marisa without misleading her or revealing too much of what I knew about her family. “You said she had questions. Did you mean questions about the tour?”

Marisa’s brows pulled together.

“I gave her a brochure about the Vespa tour, but as we stood here, she took one of these.” Marisa reached for a brochure with a photo of herself in a chef’s hat on the front. “And then she had so many questions about me. Where did I train to be a chef? Where was my home? I was a little uncomfortable, but I found myself saying, ‘I grew up at the Moretti Villa, where you will be on Friday on the Vespa tour.’ And she said, “Will I see your Mamma?’ It seemed a very strange thing to ask. And then Cristiano called for me, and I was glad. The girl—Sophie—was still here when I left on a walking tour.”

“Where is Cristiano today?” I asked.

She gave an exaggerated shrug. “He has not been here. No one knows where he is, but sometimes”—she gave a little wave that I interpreted: He has a hangover or he’s with a woman.

“Sophie told me she’d been out partying with Cristiano Friday night,” I said.

Marisa gave a little laugh. “I am not surprised.”

I left without much new information, but what Marisa had told me aligned with what I knew of Sophie’s plan to find Bianca Moretti. The clever girl had done her research on the Morettis, but she may have believed Bianca was Marisa’s mother.

Starting down the creaky stairs, I saw Cristiano on the street. “You!” he cried from a distance, looking up at me with a wild expression. I hurried down the steps, not wanting to encounter him midway and risk a push from him. At the foot of the stairs, he faced me, impossibly close. I could smell his breath, the hint that he had tried to mask the smell of alcohol with peppermint.

“What do you want from me? You have caused trouble enough!” he said.

“Marisa gave me recipes from the cooking class,” I said. I started to reach into my tote bag, where I’d dropped the little booklet, but he grabbed my wrist.

“You should not be here,” he said, each word sharp as a blade.

“You should take your hand off me,” I said, my words just as sharp.

He did, but he continued to glare at me.

I took a step back, put my palm out in protest, and said, “I have no business with you, Cristiano. I’m leaving now.”

“The polizia came for me this morning!” he said.

I had started to go around him, but I stopped. “You were arrested?”

“Not arrested. I had done nothing! But I spent the morning at the questura. I was treated like a criminal. Put in a room to wait. Questioned by a stupid detective. Questioned about everything I had ever done. They took my phone.”

I thought of Eli’s words: Don’t get yourself arrested in Italy.

“Was this about Sophie’s calls and texts?” I asked, feeling a rush of sympathy for the man, though I couldn’t make myself like him.

“Of course! It is your fault! You told them about me—I know! But no matter how they tried, they could not find anything to charge me,” he said with a sneer.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you. But the texts and calls between you and Sophie worked in your favor, didn’t they?” I said. “And they proved Sophie had plans for that night.”

He snorted. “You have no idea what it is like when the polizia come!”

“Did you get your phone back?” I asked.

He pulled his phone from his pants pocket, as his answer.

“Go away,” he said. “Do not come back.” And he began taking the stairs two at a time.

“Cristiano—I’m sorry,” I called. “Sorry you had to go through that.”

He paused but did not look back.