Peanuts, pretzels . . .” The blonde Alitalia flight attendant rummaged in an oversized plastic bag. “ . . . or taralli.”
“The taralli, please.” Given the reason for my flight to Rome, I wasn’t hungry. But like a stereotypical Italian-American, I ate my emotions. And I’d never met a food I didn’t bite.
“When do the movies start?” My businessman seatmate directed the question at the flight attendant’s rack.
“As soon as we reach our cruising altitude.” She handed me a package of the savory Italian crackers. “We’re showing Hostage, Taken, and The Missing.”
I recoiled against the window. It was hard not to think about possible scenarios for David and the vassal’s disappearance, but I certainly hadn’t planned on binge-watching them.
After stress-eating my salty snack, I slipped a complimentary mask over my eyes and used a pillow to position myself against the side of the plane. If I was going to be of any use to the boys, I had to get some sleep.
But David and the vassal invaded my mind. They’d been so psyched about the trip that they’d waged a mock gladiator battle in the office the day before they left. They didn’t have Roman swords, so they’d improvised with a weapon common among computer science undergrads, lightsabers—limited edition, no less.
I punched my pillow. Not only was I the one who’d convinced them to go to Italy instead of WonderCon in Anaheim, I’d even made their hotel reservations. If something had happened to those boys, my Catholic guilt would crucify me for life.
I had to remember that Italy was safe. In fact, it had a lower crime rate than the United States.
On the other hand, there were bad people in every country, and all it took for tragedy to strike was meeting the wrong one.
Of course, there could’ve been an innocent explanation for their disappearance. For instance, given the boys’ obsession with ancient Rome, it was possible that they’d taken the bus to Via Appia Antica, the old Appian Way, and gotten lost in the countryside.
But even if they were lost somewhere, it was two a.m. on Tuesday in Rome. So, they’d been missing for almost three days. And with every minute that ticked off the clock, the odds of finding them alive dropped.
The plane hit an air pocket, and I hit my head.
Probably a message from the universe to stop freaking out and get some rest.
I fluffed the pillow and returned to my sitting sleep position. Within a few minutes, the hum of the engine lulled me toward la-la land.
“Mind if we switch seats, Mr. CEO?” The female voice exuded sex and cigarettes. “Or we could share, and I could give you a show.”
A super turbulence–sized jolt went through me. I recognized that voice. And that offer of a lap dance.
Has to be a nightmare.
I nestled deeper into the pillow and tried again to drift off.
Then I shot up.
How can I be having a nightmare if I never went to sleep?
I lifted a corner of my mask.
The businessman had bailed, and in the aisle was a blue bra and lace-up mini miniskirt with garters and gold pilot wings on each hip.
The cabin seemed to lose pressure, and I would’ve sworn the plane had entered in a tailspin. “Glenda?”
She struck a pole-dance pose. “Who the hell else looks this hot?”
I hyperventilated, and it had nothing to do with the altitude. “Wha- wha- what about the Booty Cruise?”
“I wasn’t feelin’ it, Miss Franki.”
Well, I was feelin’ it. And the sensation was equivalent to having all the passengers’ carry-on bags dumped onto me. “How could you not feel the men’s sporting goods?”
She closed the overhead compartment and sat beside me. “From what Miss Ronnie told me last night, Italian men wear their clothes so tight you can cruise their booty without a boat.”
Veronica? If she was behind this last-minute trip, I wanted the judge in that court case to throw the gavel at her. Literally.
“Besides, with the boys missin’, the timin’ wasn’t right.” She put her foot on the seatback in front of her. “And I didn’t have the clothes for a cruise.”
“And you have them for a trip to Italy?” I eyed her “Fly” stripper shoe, guessing the other said “Me.”
“I’ve got a whole apartment full of colored thongs, not to mention this Sexy Stewardess costume.” She tightened a bra strap, lifting a breast a solid three inches. “When I wore it onstage at Madame Moiselle’s, it got the men flyin’ sky high.”
“They’re called flight attendants. And you’re a passenger, so you should dress like one.”
“You are such a bore, sugar.” She untied the laces on both sides of her pilot-winged skirt to reveal a gold lamé thong. “Satisfied?”
About as much as Mick Jagger. I couldn’t imagine the chaos Glenda’s getups would cause in Rome.
A seventyish Italian male peered around the side of the seat she had her shoe on. His eyes pulsated like he was groping her with his gaze, and drool pooled at the side of his mouth.
“Porco!” The seventyish woman sitting next to him stabbed him with a plastic butter knife until it broke.
“Ma sei impazzita?” he shouted with his fingers pinched together and his hand bent upward at the wrist.
The flight attendant hurried down the aisle. “What’s happening? Che succede?”
“I need another knife,” the woman said in a thick accent.
Okay, so I could imagine the chaos. And it wasn’t conducive to an investigation. Or to public safety.
I threw my blanket over Glenda. “Italy is not the French Quarter. You’ve got to cover up.”
“Why? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the men are more forward.”
“Which is why I’m coming on this trip.”
I saw a gold lamé glimmer of hope. “This is just a vacation for you?”
She tucked the blanket around her like a low-cut, strapless mini dress. “I can help you find the boys and enjoy la dolce vita too.”
I collapsed in my seat. Her sweet life would sour mine.
“You watch.” She pulled a makeup bag from her purse. “We’re going to get there and find out they hooked up with a couple of young Sophia Lorens for a Roman romp.”
David and the vassal were players, but not in the traditional womanizing sense. The only female action they saw happened inside virtual reality goggles. “I don’t think so. There’s a lot of family and social pressure on Italian women when it comes to dating. So they’re more guarded than Americans about relationships, and tourists are pretty much off limits.”
“That’s not what Miss Ronnie told me about the men.” She sprinkled red and green glitter on her chest, evoking the Italian flag. “She said they’re Latin Lovers who appreciate women, regardless of age.”
Forget throwing the gavel at Veronica, I wanted that judge to charge her with contempt—of colleague and best friend. “Never mind the men. Something happened to those boys, and the proof is that they missed their flights.”
“They’re college kids.” She separated her breasts and spritzed them with Prada Candy perfume. “Maybe they went off with some other spring breakers and forgot to change their tickets.”
“But Mr. Savoie told Veronica that they’re not answering their phones, email, or social media messages, which is a violation of everything tech geeks believe in, i.e., technology.”
“Don’t you fret, Miss Franki. We’re going to sniff them out like truffle-hunting trollops.” She leaned across the armrest. “I packed a few extras for you to make sure of it.”
The plane went into a free fall.
No, wait. That was my stomach. I had all kinds of ideas about what she’d meant by “extras,” and I didn’t want to explore any of them. “Please tell me you’re talking about investigative devices.”
She rolled her eyes like I was the outrageous one. “I was talkin’ about sleuthin’ suits.”
I flashed back to the stripper Sherlock Holmes number she’d put together when Veronica paid her to consult with me on a strip club murder case. And that memory was so vivid I pulled down my sleep mask.
Glenda squeezed my hand. “Isn’t it marvelous, sugar? We’ll be in Italy dressed up like twins.”
Talk about foul play.