The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,27

Manhattan from Ninth Avenue down absorbing most of the vista, Jersey a tiny strip, the rest of the United States even smaller, and the horizon dotted with China, Japan, and Russia in minuscule type. It was a Manhattan mind-set she shared, much to her husband’s bewilderment.

“We’re here because we love to cook,” Terry continued, “and, well, as you can see, we love to eat, too.”

Both Russos were carrying a few extra pounds, but not much. Faith was surprised the woman had mentioned it, and her husband did not appear happy with the remark. The man was actually scowling. They looked to be in their late forties, and when it seemed that this was going to be the extent of Terry’s remarks, Gianni, who had come into the room, said, “The name ‘Rossi’ is ‘Russo’ in Southern Italy, so we’re related!”

That did the trick, and Len Russo relaxed visibly. “Paisan!” he called out. Gianni’s personality, Faith realized, was going to be a major asset for Cucina della Rossi.

A strident voice broke into her thoughts.

“We are Roderick and Constance Nashe from Surrey. I think you will find we are not novices in the kitchen, having had a great deal of experience with fine dining and the execution of many cuisines.”

She shot Faith a look that clearly threw down a glove—my knife skills versus yours any day. Faith also noted that Constance did not deem it necessary to mention that Surrey was in England and one of the wealthiest parts of the country. One was just supposed to know these things.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun!” The speaker actually clapped her hands together. “I mean, my aunt and I want to learn everything. We are total beginners, but we just love Italian food! Oh, I’m Sally Culver and she’s Harriet—”

“Sugar”—Harriet interrupted her niece—“the last time anyone called me ‘Harriet’ was when Daddy caught me sneaking peach schnapps from his liquor cabinet around the time dinosaurs were still roaming the bayous. Call me ‘Hattie,’ y’all. And you’ve probably guessed that we’re from Louisiana.”

Faith noticed Hattie was wearing a wedding band, but her niece wasn’t. Perhaps to make up for it, she had a diamond and sapphire cocktail ring that she’d definitely have to take off before kneading pasta dough.

After the Culvers, the room descended into what was soon an uncomfortable silence. The remaining three people looked at one another and then all of them spoke at once, stopped, and finally Olivia plunged in.

“I’m Olivia. Here to learn.” The intimation was that the rest of her fellow students were good-time charlies, dilettantes, culinary lightweights.

More silence.

“Where are you from, dear?” Hattie asked. “I’m getting a hint of Crocodile Dundee. So you’re Australian?”

“Something like that,” Olivia said, and slouched back in her chair. She’d picked one far from the rest of the group by the windows.

“I guess that leaves us. We’re Sky and Jack from sunny California,” said the woman Faith had noticed at the Hostaria Giggetto and afterward at the gelateria that first night in Rome. A very passionate pair, judging from their behavior between courses. Maybe they were on their honeymoon. Their wedding rings were shiny, and Sky’s was coupled with a diamond as big as the Ritz. She looked younger than Faith, although it was hard to tell her age. Good genes or maybe a good plastic surgeon. Whatever the cause, she was a stunning California girl with more than a passing resemblance to Farrah, except with updated hair—blond, yes, but straight, a glossy silken curtain hanging to the top of her almost bare shoulders. She was wearing a tank top with whisker-thin straps. Her eyes, or contact lenses, were emerald green.

“We thought it would be fun to do something different. I mean not just go look at museums.”

“Not that we don’t like that,” Jack said. “Anyway, we’re hoping to wow people when we get home with some gourmet meals.”

If Sky was Farrah, Jack was Malibu Ken—toned, buff. He exuded health and he was also blond. Adopting the current fashion among men his age, he looked like he needed a shave. It was oddly attractive. Alone or together, Sky and Jack turned heads. Faith had had an Uncle Sky, short for Schuyler. She doubted that was the case here, imagining flower-children parents who fortunately hadn’t saddled their daughter with something groovy like Rainbow Starlight.

The couple was sitting close; she was almost in his lap. Faith noticed that Olivia was regarding them with an expression of loathing, which quickly disappeared when she