14
I think so,” said Zoe, folding her arms. Chef was beaming as though these proceedings had nothing to do with him. “By the time the rest of us left for the piazza, his stomach was already off.”
None of us quite knew what to feel about this zeroing in on the culprit meal. On the one hand, it focused Joe Batta’s attention—which meant a breather for any of us on the scene those other times. But on the other hand, all I could picture of la cena was an orgy of pasta pots and sauté pans and swaths of handmade noodles and steam and dirty dishes left over from every other meal of the day. Annamaria’s plot to complicate Chef’s kitchen managed to hand the cops a whopper of a crime scene to examine. But—but—it also held the possibility of identifying amatoxin residue on a plate or plates. If the kitchen had been up to its normal sanitary standards would any clues remain? Would amatoxin on Bob Gramm’s plate survive the 160-degree wash water of a commercial dishwasher?
This was a break for them.
But for us, as long as the villa kitchen remained off-limits, Pete and Annamaria and I could figure out how to feed our little Orlandini family out of Pete’s cottage kitchen. But how could we run the final two days of Marinara Misteriosa? The answer was we couldn’t. But even beyond that, why—in good taste, after the murder—would we even want to?
All of a sudden, Detective Giovanni Battista Onetto was wired for action. He sprang up, filling me at the same time with both hope and dread, and strode toward the kitchen, his Italian coming so fast it sounded like water trying to swirl down a clogged drain. Nina turned to us as her boss disappeared through the door to the corridor, and told us, “He and crime scene techs descend on the kitchen now, which you will remember is off-limits. He will see each of you privately as time permits. That is all. Go about your business.”
At a wide-eyed glance from Annamaria, Pete spoke up. “Our business is the kitchen.”
Nina shrugged. “You can cook, Signor Orlandini,” she made it plain, “you just can’t do it there.” To no one in particular, she added, “I will be making calls in the car, if I’m needed.” Grabbing a hot pink bouclé jacket that was surprisingly smart with her red skirt, she half ran out the door, and that left all the rest of us. A dispirited group, if ever. Jenna sat softly crying by the fireplace where there were only ashes for cold comfort. Laura saw a need and trudged over to build a fire. George and Pete glared at each other for having failed at cave care. Annamaria stared inscrutably at the hand-painted Orlandini brand, TUTTO FA BRODO.
It was Chef who actually started flipping channels, pausing happily at a mountain biking event. Rosa, Sofia, and Lisa started swiping with cloths at the classroom tables, although they didn’t need cleaning. Sitting near me, Zoe seemed restless. When Chef tired of the biking, Rosa took the remote gently from his left hand and stepped up closer to the wall-mounted TV. One click got her to the channel usually the home of her fantasy squeeze, Stealth Chef, but just in time for a commercial break from a green building reality TV show featuring straw bale houses. She howled when the canned voice announced Stealth Chef reruns until next week when Stealthy returns with Recipes for All.
George laughed. “Rosa,” he called to her from across the room, “ti piace quello?” You like that?
She seemed judicious. “Stealthy è un bravo chef.”
“Or brava,” George said pointedly.
Rosa snorted her disagreement.
“What a gimmick.” He sighed and shook his head. “At Fraîche Take Bistro, we feed real people real food.” When Zoe suppressed a laugh, he shot her a look. I sensed that those of us who knew Rosa Bari deemed it unwise to suggest to a fan girl that TV cooking was pretty much staged with not too much accountability. Beyond our walls there in the common room, regardless of whether Marinara Misteriosa had ground sickeningly to a halt, or whether none of us sitting around on the stylish Cassina rentals had anything more than a fire to warm ourselves by, events out in the corridor were noisy. All that stood between the ten of us sad and quiet in the common room and the “official business” bumping and hauling and squawking and shouting just thirty feet away was a door.
Out of nothing, not even thin air, I came up with a couple of useful ideas. The first I whispered to Pete, who seemed grateful to have something to do. Wordlessly, he left us to take my advice and do two things: get his cottage ready for dinner guests and call the pizza delivery place just down the road in Cortona. Dinner was set, and I hardly cared how it tasted. When he had gone, I called Jenna, George, and Zoe over to the love seats by the fire. I spread my hands. “Here’s the way I see it.” All three were watching me closely. “We’re all suspects, so for the next couple of days at least”—I looked at each of them in turn—“you’re not going anywhere.”
“Agreed,” said George. Zoe nodded. Jenna, at least, did not dispute it.
“So here is my question,” I went on, “for you.” I paused, partly because I really wanted their attention and partly because I was hoping I wasn’t being crass. “Do you want to continue?”
“Continue?” That was Jenna, and I could tell her mind was filling in a whole lot of wrong blanks. Continue stealing knives, running away, hunting truffles with Stella, living. For the moment, I decided to hold off on adding, “Sprinkling Amanita phalloides over anybody’s pasta.”
I cleared it up for her. “Continue cooking. Continue with the second half of Marinara Misteriosa.”
After a dramatic intake of breath, Zoe blinked and said, “I do.” Having decided, she even smiled. “I came to learn from the world’s greatest chef”—at that she and the old culinary scoundrel twiddled fingers at each other—“and I want all of it.” She beamed.
Oh, well, you, I found myself thinking as I looked at her neutrally.
Annamaria covered a snort with a delicate cough.
Clasping her hands around her knees, Zoe rocked a little. “I’m in.” Then, as if she hadn’t already made the point: “Still so much to learn.”
Chef ambled over, trying to look as macho as a man could who had an arthritic knee, one palsied eyelid, and now his arm in a sling. We looked at him expectantly. But once he planted his huarache-clad tootsies in our midst, he couldn’t find anything to say. I turned to George Johnson and lifted my eyebrows at him. “Count me in,” was all he said. “I guess just how is the question.”
For her part, Jenna Bond nodded mutely, hugging herself tightly.
What was I going to do with that girl? And why did I keep thinking of her as a girl when she was only five years younger than I was? I stood. George seemed interested. So did, of all people, Annamaria. Raising my arms, I beckoned over the Bari sisters, wishing with all my might that Nina the handy-dandy translator would reappear. “Tomorrow,” I announced, “we continue.”
Rosa lifted her gray-clad shoulders expectantly. “Più scuola?” More school?
I gave her a hug for making it so simple—and for being someone who would hug me back at the moment, when I was too professional—so I would tell myself—to try George Johnson. “Yes, Rosa.” We stepped into the hug. “More school.” I had hoped the clapping would have been lustier, but so be it. Then I turned to Chef and the Bari sisters, and ticked off a short list of tasks for tomorrow, our third day of Marinara Misteriosa classes.
Make a shopping list of all necessary ingredients, including a few easy meals for Glynis, who would probably not be wanting to consume any pasta with marinara sauce anytime soon. (Chef and Zoe both raised their hands. I chose Chef, who made subtle gestures to include Zoe in list making, which I ignored.)
Call Oswaldo for an emergency delivery of whatever produce we need. (I gave this job to Chef, who did not raise his hand to volunteer. Let the guy work.)
Help Oswaldo with the delivery. (Jenna. Consider sending bodyguard. For Oswaldo.)
Go to market in town for the herbs and spices. (Rosa would bike there.)
Call the closest kitchen supply place for cookware, knives (I slid a glance at Jenna), utensils, plates. (Zoe and Annamaria both volunteered. When I chose Zoe, Annamaria shot me an alarmed look, which I tamped down with one hand, because . . .)
Set up and prep in the makeshift kitchen for the day’s lessons. (Annamaria.)
“That leaves a stove, a fridge, a sink—” counted George.
“No worries,” I positively sang out, heading toward the crowded corridor. “All under control.” From whence this optimism? “A few phone calls and we’re golden.” Someone whistled. I believe it was the always surprising Sofia.
“Wait!” called George. “What’s my job, Nell?”
“You, George?” Think fast, Valenti. “You set it all up.”
“Set what up?”
“The stove, the fridge, the sink.” You want ’em, you got ’em, buster. What I thought was a coup got demoted when I noticed he sat back, hiding his delight at scoring probably the biggest job of all. “Find a good place for our culinary classes and set it all up.” Really, from his expression you would think I had just presented the boy in him the Millennium Falcon Lego set.
“Anywhere?” he asked inscrutably.
Now I was worried. “Anywhere.”
Even great-looking guys are capable of reptilian smiles. “I’ll look around.”
“Remember,” I improvised wildly, wanting to pile it on, “you’ll need to move some worktables. And stools.”
“Ooh,” he said teasingly. “Stools. Such a lot for me to do.”
I went prim. “You must own your education.” Where did I come up with that bit of swill?
With his hands in his pockets, George Johnson came up right beside me, his mobile mouth not two inches from my left ear. “So must you.”
I raised my voice, saying, “I have calls to make.” But it was lost on George, who was already studying the makeshift kitchen possibilities, heading toward the chapel dining room. “Oh, George,” I called out, going all Dame Maggie Smith. “Please choose four bottles of wine from the wine cellar for tonight’s dinner.” Then I added wickedly, “You know the way.” He threw me a salute without turning around, and his laugh followed him out of sight.
I whispered to Rosa to please go check on Signora Gramm, but be careful not to disturb her. And as I headed in the direction of my office, I called back to staff and students needing to fill the time in ways that didn’t include local law enforcement, “Dinner in thirty minutes in Pete’s cottage.” I registered some gasps of delight—from whom, exactly, it did not bear thinking.
“But, but—” tried Rosa, always tracking everyone, “Giorgio non lo sa.” George doesn’t know. She craned her neck to see if he was in earshot and had caught the plan.
I wrinkled my nose at her. “He’ll find us.”
Or not.
In the meantime, before pizza showed up, I had calls to make.
Early the next morning, ten of us reconvened to salvage what we could of Marinara Misteriosa. Annamaria reported to me with hands that were too tired to wring for maximum effect that she was deeply mourning the temporary loss of the kitchen. She went on to make me understand that the carabinieri had busied themselves until just after two a.m. From the way she said it, you would think Annamaria was waiting to hear a loved one was out of brain surgery. Her other key piece of information was that Joe Batta had made his way through the four younger Bari sisters, which may not be the best way to put it, leaving Annamaria herself for sometime after midnight when they were both quasi morti—almost dead—and he would return this morning to interview the Orlandinis, the students, and—she winced apologetically—me.
Before the pizza party last night, I arranged for the delivery of the temporary kitchen equipment we’d be needing, spending in about ten minutes’ worth of phone time about €2,600. Roughly half what, say, George Johnson had paid for four days of instruction at the Villa Orlandini, not including airfare. That meant in those frenetic ten minutes I had spent one-tenth of our income from Marinara Misteriosa. First, I shuddered. Then, I determined to put my spendthrift ways behind me to chow down some pizza and knock back a couple of glasses of wine.
I wasn’t the life of the party. Nobody was, really, although George and Zoe made some efforts in that direction. On her third glass of an unassuming little Chianti (really, George; ask a man to do an errand . . .), Zoe regaled us with a tale about an outbreak of poison ivy during Senior Citizen Camp week at the outdoor education center, and George was minimally entertaining with stories about celebrities he’d served, such as Anthony Bourdain and Toni Morrison. Jenna was wearing jeans and a pale pink T-shirt, quietly sipping the half glass of wine she had asked for, which she had topped off with some ginger ale. Rosa, Sofia, Laura, and Lisa seemed happy to be there—only Annamaria had begged off.
Pete took care of everyone. We all sat separately, separate love seats, separate chairs, separate floor cushions, looking like a random assortment of strangers. I guess that was really the truth. Chef stretched out on his side, aiming for youthful, and managed to down two slices. I watched with detachment to see whether he’d choke, but no. We’d have to content ourselves with stories about celebrities at Fraîche Take Bistro.
But no amount of margherita pizza and passable red wine and amusing stories could erase the possibility that one of us could have poisoned Bob Gramm. I sat back, dabbing my lips with a cloth napkin. We could be sitting in our solitary seats, listening to an endless loop of Sarah Vaughan that never goes wrong, the days ahead uncertain, but at least there were cloth napkins. It was a kind of comfort. Pete caught my smile. I knew I should stay to help him clean up, but I was Dead Nell Walking at that point in the day. Without a word, I communicated with Pete, who nodded, holding up a dismissive hand. With a quick good night to the others as a group, I headed to the door and slipped out.
So my surprise was vast when, the next morning, I showered, poured coffee, and got some work done in my room, half-aware of distant rumblings in the courtyard and delicate raindrops on the roof. Equipment being delivered? At 8:43 a.m.? I didn’t intend to unlock the door, raise the shade, and leave my precious room until I finished my list, a hodgepodge of sleuthing tasks and business nightmares. The business list had two entries: turn over my office to Joe Batta for the duration (better to keep the common room and chapel open to the students staying on, and better to keep official police investigation in a confined space); and do the math for partial refunds to Glynis for the unused portions of the Gramms’ registrations (discuss full refunds with Pete).
The other, sleuthing list would be more time-consuming, and I’d have to see what I could reasonably turf to Pete and the Baris to free me up a bit today: study the spreadsheet with all the numbers that I’d discovered in Bob Gramm’s money belt (ask Glynis? risky?); dig into the backgrounds of the five Americans, see what bubbled up that didn’t make it onto their applications for Marinara Misteriosa; review the events of the day Bob Gramm took ill. New item for new list, nothing to do with business or sleuthing: consider own tendency to use euphemism (e.g., “took ill”). Q. for self: Any point in asking Dad to call off George Johnson when whole awful ugly workshop murder/sexual tension thing ends in two days? Dr. Val Valenti has probably gotten an earful from his man in the field over the last couple of days. So . . . why hasn’t he called me? Was Dad growing up? Or . . . was I, that it hadn’t even occurred to me until now?
Stepping into my high-rise flare pants and tugging my green cropped sweater over my head, I slipped my lists into my laptop sleeve, then hesitated on the threshold for just a minute as deliverymen passed by, their two-wheelers stacked with boxed equipment. They kept on the manicured path until it ended, then gamely wheeled their goods across the wet grass toward Pete’s cottage. Oh, no. No. George wasn’t setting up our makeshift kitchen in Pete’s cottage, was he? I’d wring his appealing neck. Maybe I’d place that call to Dad after all. Then I stopped in my tracks. If the murder of Bob Gramm spun out, resistant to easy solutions, did that mean I’d have Zoe Campion, George Johnson, and Jenna Bond on my hands for the foreseeable future?
So be it. My eyes narrowed. Maybe I could talk them into staying at the inn in town. On our dime. Which was just about what we’d have left to spend for three rooms for however long. Still, I could play Lady Bountiful, why not? I bet it was all the same to Joe Batta, here, there, wherever, those three. As soon as he cleared any of them of suspicion, off Manny Manfredi would whisk them. For that matter, why pay Manny Manfredi to drive them to the Florence airport? I’d do it for free. I’d even speed.
I hoofed it to the courtyard, where Laura was directing traffic implacably: restaurant equipment delivery vans to the right, carabinieri to the left. Rosa was pedaling down the driveway with her socks rubber-banded over her loose pants leg, and the worn-out panniers flopping from a missing strap. Chef, buttoning up his shirt, peppered the madness with laughing comments.
Pete and Annamaria escorted the boxed deliveries down toward Pete’s cottage. “What’s going on?” I grabbed his sleeve. For the first time since I’d arrived at the Villa Orlandini, Pete wasn’t tracking me. My location, my mood, my activities. When he looked at me, he seemed surprised to find me there.
“Your pal George Johnson made his choice.”
“He’s not my pal.”
“Oh, Nell,” said Pete softly. “He’s something.” When the delivery guy cleared his throat—no translation necessary—Pete started to walk with him, calling back with no inflection in his voice, “We’ll be cooking in the oil production space.” Without another word, he continued on his way.
I didn’t know what to make of it. “Well,” I yelled, sounding a lot like my father at his shrinkiest, “how does that make you feel?”
Pete Orlandini, my first—maybe my only—friend at the Villa Orlandini Cooking School, heard me and pulled up short, just long enough to turn around. “The way I figure it,” he yelled back, shoving his fists on his hips, “it might as well be used for something.” With that, he turned away angrily. “At least I managed to pay for all the equipment.”