Chapter 40

It shouldn’t have been such a shock, given that we already knew Carlo was a woman. But I hadn’t seen it coming. Varinia—Vicente—had played his part just as effectively as Carlotta had played hers. Both had criminal records for petty crimes. Eli said that in each new town, they came up with a different disguise. Once Carlotta had been Vicente’s daughter. Another time they had pretended to be female cousins. The only consistent element was the wheelchair. As I listened to Eli, I could only shake my head.

“Once it all came out that they were looking for Vicente Raimondi,” Eli said, “the police had no trouble finding him at the train station. He’d ditched the wig and the dress and cleaned off the make-up. Looked like a regular guy, I guess, but they had his mug shot. My source said he was standing at the tracks, about to board a southbound train, looking like he didn’t have a care.”

“Or trying to,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Playing a part.”

“The two should have been in show business,” Paul said, with a half-smile.

I hadn’t been amused by any of it, but Eli’s hearty laugh came from the speaker and Paul’s smile broadened, and I realized that there was, indeed, something comical about the charade the pair had pulled off. The part that wasn’t funny, of course, was the death of an innocent man who had been sleeping in the shop that Carlotta robbed.

And then I thought of Sophie. Did these two push her out of her window because she knew—or they thought she knew—what they were doing? There was still the locked room. Unless they simply confessed to her murder, and that wasn’t likely, we would never know.

Some distance from us, a motorscooter passed through the piazza, not going very fast. I thought of Florence, the streets full of scooters and bikes. Not so, here in Fiesole. I remembered the crash, just a few hours ago though it seemed much longer, the frightening moment Eli was thrown from the Vespa. I asked him, “Are you going to the doctor?”

“Me? Nah. Somebody cleaned and wrapped my arm at the questura. I have some pain pills I’ll take when I can sleep. Miles to go, yet. I was lucky. I’ll say that.” Eli chuckled. “Small price to pay for the story I got.”

Paul and I left the café a few minutes later. It was a nice walk through quiet, narrow streets to our destination, a fifteen-minute stroll. Salvatore’s unpretentious house was in a row of other similar ones, two-story stucco with red tile roofs. A cluster of balloons, all different colors, was tied to the wrought-iron fence at the gate.

At the nearby cross street, another motorscooter appeared—or was it the same one we’d seen in the piazza? Practically creeping at first, the Vespa accelerated noisily when the driver, clad in bikers’ black boots, pants, jacket, and full-face helmet, saw that I was looking. A chill traveled down my spine. But Paul gave no indication that he’d noticed the scooter. He opened the wrought-iron gate, and we made our way along the cobblestone path. “May I have the gift?” he said.

I took the brown package from my tote bag and handed it to him. The front door flew open and two small boys came running into the yard. Strains of harp music drifted from inside.

Nothing amiss here. It was a party! I could just hear Alex saying, “I hope you’re not going to start imagining some sort of intrigue, Jordan, as you have been known to do.”

* * * * *

If Salvatore Corsini was not absolutely delighted with the first edition art book that featured his early mosaic, his ability as an actor surely rivaled his talents as an artist. A big tear rolled down each cheek into his neatly-trimmed white beard. He made no effort to wipe them away. His wife, Nicola, was one of those Italian beauties who looked to be the age of his granddaughters—mid-forties was my guess. She tried to dab at his tears with a tissue, but he pushed her hand away. He sat the entire time, a plump little man who wouldn’t have measured five-foot-two, standing. Someone pulled a chair beside him for Paul and one for me, and someone else brought us exquisitely-painted goblets of excellent wine, and not just two fingers’ worth. After a few minutes of being polite, I left the men to talk, Salvatore holding Paul’s hand in both of his wizened old hands.

Paul had said “small party” but in my imagination, an Italian ninetieth birthday celebration would be a big, lively party. There were platters of antipasti and bruchetta and plenty of wine. The music was splendid. But it was low-key. As I wandered around, meeting the guests, I decided that everyone except Paul and me was family. Salvatore’s seven children by three wives—none by Nicola—were present, along with their children and grandchildren. One young woman, married to Salvatore’s great-grandson, was nursing a baby, so there was at least one great-great-grandchild. Even the harpist was a granddaughter, a teacher at the Fiesole School of Music. I learned much of the family history from a stylish woman who reminded me of Angelica Moretti. I was admiring a large mosaic that extended most of the length of the hall when the woman came out of the bathroom and struck up a conversation with me.

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

“Extraordinary,” I said. It was a wedding scene, people, birds, flowers, and butterflies, created with what had to be a million tiny tiles. Having seen the photo of that other mosaic in the art book, I had the impression that this was from the same period, and the woman confirmed.

“It was a wedding gift to me, but when we divorced, I told Salvatore I did not want it. I’m sorry for that now.” She introduced herself as “the second wife, Serafina, the mother of four of his children. I have the record for the longest marriage to Salvatore, eighteen years.” I managed to say my name before she told me that Paul Broussard had been a frequent visitor to their house when she was married to Salvatore, and she always hoped he would marry their daughter, but the daughter was happily married to a plastic surgeon who kept her beautiful, so all had ended well.

Serafina was a wellspring of information that I did not need, but she was entertaining. My impression, from her gossip, was that Salvatore’s family were all congenial with each other, and the more delicious the scandal that might erupt about one of them, the more they all enjoyed it.

Back in the midst of the party, Serafina stuck with me. Nicola joined us for a minute and told me, “It is the best birthday for Salvatore because his friend Paul is here.” Her English was hesitant, which may have been the reason she seemed shy. Or it could have been that Serafina’s personality simply overshadowed hers.

“Would you like to see Salvatore’s studio?” Serafina said, and without waiting for my answer, she said, “Nicola, please bring the key.”

And that was how I got a private tour of Salvatore Corsini’s studio. A separate building behind the house, opposite a small, elegant courtyard, the studio contained what must have been a hundred pieces of art, all sizes. Spectacular mosaics that represented the life’s work of the old artist. Something about the deeply personal nature of Salvatore’s art made me wish Paul was my tour guide, not Serafina.

Paul and I said our goodbyes soon after the cake was served. Family members were leaving, too. There would be no big Italian meal, even for family. Paul closed the wrought-iron gate behind us and we began to walk back the way we had come. It was still light, a pleasant walk, but cooler than before. The party had lasted only about an hour and a half.

“Is everything all right?” I asked Paul, who seemed unusually quiet.

He said, “I do not think my friend has long to live. He didn’t speak of an illness, but he no longer goes to his studio. He said, ‘I am very tired.’”

“He’s ninety years old,” I said. “He has earned the right to be tired.”

“I always imagined him dancing, laughing, drinking wine, working furiously! Defying old age until one day he was just—gone.” Paul smiled. “I didn’t imagine what old age would look like on Salvatore.”

Our conversation made me think of Alex, the person who, in my mind, would always defy old age, and I felt a stab of guilt that I hadn’t been in touch with him all day. He was supposed to come back to the convent today—wasn’t he? With all that had happened since we’d spoken yesterday, I couldn’t remember exactly how we left things. I dug my phone out of the depths of my tote bag and checked for a message or a missed call, but there was no sign that he’d tried to reach me.

“I need to call Alex,” I said.

“I will call our driver,” Paul said.

We moved apart a few steps while we each made our calls.

Alex answered and sounded perfectly chipper. He was back at the convent, and I had told him I was going to a party with Paul this afternoon, so he hadn’t been expecting me to call. “Is the party over already?” he said. “I thought Italian parties lasted all night and into the morning.”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” I said. “I wish you could have seen this man’s studio.”

The noise came upon us so fast that I barely had time to turn and see the motorscooter speeding toward us. Toward me. I heard, as much as I felt, the bump. I was aware that my feet had left the ground and my phone had flown into the sky.