Chapter 36

“Do you know if there are any plans—blueprints, architectural plans—of the convent?” I asked Ivonna, trying to curb my impatience. I had waited so long for the elevator that I finally ran down the hall and took the stairs. Then I’d had to wait for Ivonna to finish a phone call.

From her seat behind the computer, she frowned. I tried to clarify. “Drawings of the building. Construction drawings.”

“The building is very old,” Ivonna said.

I didn’t expect to find plans from the fifteenth century, but I’d hoped there might be as-built drawings, done when renovations had taken place. Clearly there had been a few renovations over the period of five centuries.

Her expression changed suddenly, her eyes widening. “There is a book in the library that might have pictures.”

I sighed, and I’m sure I sounded disappointed. “Where is the library?”

She must have read my mind because she said, “I do not mean the big biblioteca for the city. No, I am thinking of our library on il primo piano.” She gave a little laugh. “We call it our library though it is really a very small reading room, with only a few books. But I know of a book that one of our own Sisters wrote about how Convento di Santa Francesca Firenze survived the flood of 1966. Do you know of that terrible flood?

“I’ve heard stories.” Mostly, stories about the important art that was lost—thousands of paintings, frescoes, and sculptures, destroyed by water or mud. From all over the world, volunteers—“mud angels” they were called—flocked to the city to help in the rescue effort.

“There was so much damage to the convent, but many donations came in, and we were able to repair.” Again, a smile. “I do not mean that I was alive when it happened. I was not, of course. My mamma was very young, herself, but my nonna has told stories, and Sister Assunta, also. She showed me the book, and I remember many pictures.”

Pictures weren’t the same as floor plans, but they might be useful. I asked Ivonna if she could show me to the reading room. She wasn’t able to leave the office, but she told me how to locate it and said, “The room is never locked, and you will have no trouble finding the book.” She gave approximate measurements with her hands—an oversized book.

The small reading room, on Alex’s floor, was furnished as one might expect to find in an elderly grandmother’s house, complete with a profusion of doilies that I imagined the nuns crocheted. I sniffed the musty air, though the room looked clean—no visible cobwebs or dust. The smell became stronger when I reached the two shelves of books. Most of them looked old enough to have survived the 1966 flood, which might have accounted for the odor. Only one book was eleven by fourteen. I pulled it out, felt a surge of satisfaction that this had been so easy, so far, and sat down at a round table that was covered with a crocheted tablecloth.

It didn’t help that I couldn’t read Italian, but the photographs were instructive—many photos of the flooded grounds and building. Others showed the construction work in progress, and not just in the basement, which must have contained at least four feet of water, judging from the “before and after” pictures. It seemed the flood—and the subsequent donations that Ivonna mentioned—had offered an unprecedented opportunity. The large central skylight was installed, perhaps an after-the-fact of a roof damaged beyond repair. But the pages of the book that intrigued me most were the parts about the installation of new mechanical, electrical, and plumbing systems, contained in two mechanical shafts that ran vertically through all the floors.

And yes, there were a few drawings. Three pages of drawings.

I took the book to Ivonna and asked if I could get copies of pages, making the drawings larger. She was happy to oblige. Moments later she returned to the counter with my book and spread out the copies for me to approve. As I examined them and concluded that they were as sharp as we could get, Varinia Santoro came into the office, carrying her drawstring bag that apparently held clean laundry. Ivonna produced her room key. Staring at the drawings I’d had Ivonna copy, Varinia said nothing. Nothing to me, not even grazie when Ivonna handed her the key. She blinked several times in rapid succession as she regarded the elevations, a section showing the vertical shaft, and a couple of detail drawings that showed how the components fit together. I had the distinct impression that she knew exactly what they were.

Ivonna’s smile was amused, as she watched the hasty retreat of the tall, big-boned Varinia, decked out in a flowing caftan that seemed highly inappropriate for a trip to the laundromat. “A very unusual woman, and her husband, also,” Ivonna said. Peculiar was the word that came to my mind. Before I could add a comment, Ivonna leaned on the counter and said, sotto voce, “She has only once allowed the housekeeper to clean their room.”

“Did the housekeeper say there was anything odd about what they had in the room? What was so secretive?” I asked, also in a stage whisper.

“Signora Santoro wanted only the sheets changed and the floor swept. She would not let the housekeeper clean the bathroom.”

I asked how much longer Varinia and Carlo were staying, and Ivonna said they were scheduled to check out on Friday. Friday, the same day Alex and I planned to leave.

I thanked Ivonna for the copies. A thought struck me at the door, and I turned back. “Did anyone else ask to see this book? Recently, I mean.”

Ivonna thought about it.

“It was some time ago, many months. I have worked at the convent two years, and I had not been here long. Some members of a historical society met with Sister Assunta, and they took this book for a while. I think they wanted to make it available for people to buy online—because it was fifty years since the flood.”

In the reading room, before I replaced the book on the shelf, I checked the Amazon site on my phone and keyed the title into the search box. There it was. This book had come out last year as an e-book.

Another trip downstairs and outside, to the garden. I was surprised that no one else was there. Luck seemed to be with me. I had seen the old grilles along the wall at the foundation level, vents for the basement, but only at a distance. I studied one of the drawings I’d brought with me, the elevation that helped me judge which vent might be closest to the mechanical shaft that Luigi had been inspecting. Even with the aid of my phone’s flashlight I probably wouldn’t get a clear view of the basement area—or was it just a crawl space?—but the wheels of my mind kept turning, spinning out possibilities. Perhaps I could see enough to confirm that if someone managed to enter the basement through the vent, it might be possible to gain entry into the mechanical shaft.

I squatted in front of the old, rusty, decorative grille. The ground was muddy, and I wasn’t the first to be at that spot since the heavy rain. The footprints were not clearly defined, but I tried not to disturb them. Examining the grille, I drew in a sharp breath. The grille wasn’t attached. Screws should have secured it within the opening, but they were gone.

I removed the grille, set it against the building, and used the flashlight to illuminate the unfinished area. My heart began to thrum. I knew what I needed to do. I had to get in there. My experiences in tight, dark places came flooding back, and even if I could make myself go in, would I be able to squeeze through the rectangular space? I looked behind and around me again. No one else was in the courtyard, and maybe that was a sign. I took a long, deep breath and climbed through the opening.

The drop to the ground was about two feet. Once inside, I tried to think of historic buildings in Savannah with their old basements or cellars—nothing new to me, though I wouldn’t be checking out this kind of space alone, and we’d bring plenty of light with us. The smell was what I’d expected—musty. This was much more roomy than a crawl space. I could move around.

Though my light wasn’t bright, I was able to make out a metal enclosure, a little room with a door. I knew from the drawings that it enclosed the furnace, electrical panels, the ductwork and wiring that threaded through the vertical shaft, as well as water pipes affixed to the side of the shaft. All of this would be accessible only with a key—one of Luigi’s keys. The keys that were stolen when he was mugged.

I had what I needed. To be sure there was nothing more I could accomplish here, I made a sweep with my flashlight before I turned it off. I hoisted myself up at the opening, and scrambled through it.

I put the grille back in place. With my phone, I snapped several photos of the ground in front of the vent. Bending to make a closer examination of the footprints, I saw that the partial impressions were distinct enough to suggest they were made by a small shoe. Smaller than mine.

Just in time, I turned toward the French doors, which opened for two women I recognized from the breakfast room. Speaking in Italian—I was pretty sure it was Italian—they were deeply involved in their topic and barely noticed me.

My heartbeat was slowing—nearly back to normal. I headed to my room. Luigi had left the hall and locked the access door. But I’d seen the muddy footprints just inside the mechanical shaft. I had figured out how someone was able to enter the garden, the basement, and the mechanical shaft, to get to this floor. And I believed I knew who that someone was.