Chapter 37

“Jordan, that is all—quite extraordinary,” Paul said.

We were in the back seat of the car that had brought him to the convent, now headed south, away from the Arno. All that I’d discovered and concluded since we’d last texted, I simply couldn’t contain. I couldn’t stop myself, even knowing, as I did, that Paul was taking me to some special place and that, not the identity of jewel thieves, should be my priority tonight.

Paul’s slight frown indicated curiosity, though, not frustration with me, so I let it all spill out. “I’ve been wondering if Carlo could walk. I’ve seen his feet move—just enough to make me suspicious. But I couldn’t imagine why anyone who could walk would want to be in a wheelchair. Now it all makes sense. No one would guess that he’s the cat burglar.”

Paul’s response was an amused smile.

“You don’t believe me,” I said.

“I believe everything you have told me, Jordan. The man is small enough to climb up the vertical shaft, which would be too tight for most men, and his feet are small enough to make the footprints you saw in the mud and on the floor when the access door was open. But these things are, as they say, circumstantial.”

He was right. I had nothing concrete, just as I had nothing concrete to prove that Sophie had been murdered. Maybe I was looking a little downcast because he took my hand and gave a gentle squeeze. “And yet,” he said, “circumstantial evidence can be quite powerful.”

I thought of all the strange, suspicious behaviors the couple had exhibited, and I began to recap for Paul. The housekeeper could only enter the Santoros’ room when they were present and she was never allowed to clean the bathroom. What were they hiding? Varinia’s trip to the laundry hadn’t sent off bells of alarm until I realized that the person who entered the convent through the basement could not have missed getting mud on him—not just on his shoes, but on his clothing, as well. “Whoever climbed up the vertical shaft came out onto the hall through the access door, which is adjacent to the Santoros’ room,” I said. “Varinia was probably waiting, watching, and she may have wiped up mud that was left in the hall, but Carlo had locked the access door behind him, overlooking the mud that Luigi later discovered.”

A thought zipped through my mind, so reasonable that I couldn’t imagine why I was just now thinking it. I said, “Sophie saw something on Friday night, the night the police thwarted another burglary. What if she saw Carlo coming from the access door? It would be just five or six steps to his room, and maybe Varinia had their door open, but if Sophie had even a glimpse—no wonder Varinia tried to make her believe she was so drunk she couldn’t trust what she saw.”

“Are you saying there was another attempted burglary?” Paul asked.

“Two. Eli said there was one Friday night and one last night, and the jewel thief is likely a cat burglar.”

“I did not realize you and Eli were conspirators in his investigation.” Again Paul smiled. It was a warmer smile this time. “Now it is not only the young woman’s death that you feel you must explain, but the burglaries in Oltrarno, as well. You have a heart for making things right that are wrong. I love that about you, Jordan.”

The word love jolted me, brought me back to the moment—being here with Paul, so close to him, so little time left with him, this night that he’d planned for us. I gave a long, deep sigh, exasperated at myself, and then I said, “Your patience with me is more than I deserve. I love that about you, Paul.”

With our fingers entwined, we rode along in silence for another few minutes, until a huge bronze statue of David came into view, atop a hill that our car was ascending. Paul announced that we were arriving at Piazzale Michelangelo.

* * * * *

The panoramic view of Florence from Piazzale Michelangelo was even more stunning than the view from the Westin’s rooftop bar because tonight we were in time to watch a spectacular sunset. Unlike the pricey rooftop bar, here was an experience that ordinary people were enjoying. Children licking cones of gelato, couples pushing baby carriages, lovers wrapped in each other’s arms. Like Paul and me, perched on stone steps, watching the purple and orange sky turn to pink. A romantic setting without the distraction of servers or menus or wine selections.

Not that I’d ever forget the Westin. Not a chance.

This was the iconic view on so many postcards and promotional materials—the old city walls, the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the red dome of the Duomo. Now I had seen the city laid out before me from south of the Arno, as well as north of the Arno, the view from the Westin that featured the spires and towers of Oltrarno.

Sunset faded into twilight. Paul said, “We have just enough time to go inside San Miniato.” The church’s green-and-white marble façade, classic Romanesque, had already caught my eye. As we walked uphill to the church, Paul related the legend of St. Minias. A victim of persecution, the story went, he was beheaded in A.D. 250. He picked up his head and walked from the banks of the Arno to the site where the church would be built in the eleventh century to honor him. Fascinating story, and, for this architect, an even more fascinating architectural gem.

At eight o’clock, a docent politely announced to the visitors—about a dozen of us—that it was time to close the doors.

“You planned everything perfectly,” I told Paul. “The thirty-minute drive, the sunset, even time for a substantial little tour of the church. Perfect timing.”

“And now we will walk to a little ristorante, just past the city walls, where we have a reservation. It’s all downhill, and you have your sweater. It should be a nice walk,” he said.

“A lovely plan,” I said.

And the evening went exactly as he had planned. Fine Tuscan cuisine in a setting that managed to be warm, inviting, and elegant, all at once. Taxi back to his hotel, to his room.

And all of it was lovely.

* * * * *

Eli’s call came the next morning while Paul and I were having room service in his sitting area. Touristy breakfast of blueberry muffins, orange juice and coffee. Paul, fresh from the shower, wore the bathrobe the hotel provided. He had let me sleep until the knock on the door announced room service. I’d managed to slip into a little silk kimono that took up scarcely any room in the bottom of my practical tote bag.

Hearing the jingle of my phone on the bedside table, I said, “It’s probably Alex.” I hadn’t turned my phone off because I wanted Alex to always be able to reach me.

But it wasn’t Alex. I looked at the caller’s I.D. “Eli. Why is Eli calling me?” I said.

“Shouldn’t you ask him?” Paul said.

Eli apologized for calling so early, though it was nine o’clock, which was not early by my calculations. He’d called to say he was going back to Pisa tomorrow to check out some new developments related to his story on the Camorra, and he didn’t expect to be back before I left for home on Friday. He wanted to meet Paul and me for lunch today. “I wasn’t able to reach Paul, but I left a message. I figured you could reach him.” He chuckled.

“He’s right here, actually,” I said.

“Ah—I figured as much,” Eli said. But I wasn’t sure he had.

I told him that whatever they decided about lunch was fine with me, and then I handed the phone to Paul and finished the last of my muffin during the length of their good-humored conversation.

“Eli is renting a Vespa for the day,” Paul said, with a laugh. “He’s a funny fellow, but one for whom I have deep respect.”

“Maybe he just wants us to see him riding a motorscooter,” I said, smiling at the picture in my mind.

Paul had suggested a café just around the corner from the convent. Lunch at one o’clock—yes, I would be hungry four hours from now—would let us visit with Eli and we could still leave for Fiosole in time to look around the little town before the birthday party. As my clothes from last night wouldn’t do for the occasion, I would need some time at the convent to get ready. Paul—the wheels of his mind always turning—said, “I will go to the convent with you, if you agree. Perhaps the good Sisters will not mind if I enjoy the lovely garden while I wait for you to make yourself even more beautiful.”

He deserved a kiss for that. One kiss led to another, and one thing led to another, and as the silky kimono slipped to the floor, it seemed so right, being with Paul like this, that I could almost make myself believe it would last forever.