The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,47

had objected, telling him that he could get those at home and why not try something Italian, he’d shut her up with, “What do you think the name ‘Martini’ is? Polish?”

Faith was liking him less with each passing moment and was tempted to tell him that the cocktail was born in the USA, prompting H. L. Mencken to call it “the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.”

“So what do you and the little woman do?” Len repeated.

“Well, Len, we both like to surf. Sky’s better than I am.”

He was drinking Prosecco, as was she.

Len didn’t let it go. “That’s nice, but you didn’t answer my question. What’s putting the bread on the table?”

His wife shot him a warning look, which he ignored.

“We’re both in PR,” Jack said. “What about you? What’s your line of work?”

Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Len said, “I’m in waste management.” Whatever either was going to say or not say was forestalled by Gianni’s appearance with a tray of antipasti. Tom said softly to Faith, “Isn’t that what all those Sopranos were in?”

She shook her head in a “not now” gesture. She was pretty sure Len Russo was no wiseguy and was just putting them all on. She’d be willing to bet he was an insurance salesman or if he did have something to do with waste management it was managing a business that cleaned people’s septic tanks.

Francesca had sent out the grissini wrapped in prosciutto, roasted peppers, olives, marinated artichoke hearts, wedges of pecorino, some caponata, and the zucchini blossoms stuffed with fresh ricotta, floured and fried—delectable. A basket held small slices of several kinds of focaccia, lightly toasted.

Food is magic, Faith thought, not for the first time in her life. Oil—in this case, olive—upon troubled waters. The mood had changed instantly as everyone began to eat. Even the Nashes unbent, and Constance started asking the Culvers about what they had done in Florence that day. Of course it was no doubt so she could tell them all the places they’d missed and that they had gone to the wrong shops, but it was at least a step toward amiability. Gianni freshened drinks and Faith reached into her pocket for her camera. A nice scene for her trip album.

It was as if she had pulled out a Beretta. Every head save Tom’s and Gianni’s ducked.

“No pictures! I haven’t done my face,” Hattie said.

“Roderick and I do not like to be in other people’s snaps,” Constance said. The others said nothing, but their actions spoke louder than words. Len put a hand, fingers spread out, in front of his face. After ducking, Sky and Jack turned to enjoy the view to the rear. Olivia actually left the terrace, leaving her drink, so far untouched, on the table.

“Sorry,” Faith apologized. “Maybe some other time.”

But there wouldn’t be another time. For whatever reasons, and each was bound to be different, no one in the group wanted to be photographed.

“Time to go to work!” Francesca said gaily, coming out the door. “Or we won’t be eating until midnight!”

After Faith was sure that everyone else had gone into the kitchen, she told Tom she wanted to “freshen up a bit.” She’d had an idea and she might not get another chance. Olivia had rejoined the others as soon as Francesca had come out onto the terrace. Judging from what the girl had been carrying on the train, Olivia packed as lightly as the Fairchilds; and Faith wanted to take a quick look at what was in her knapsack, mainly her passport. Hotels and other places routinely requested them, recording the information, but she didn’t feel comfortable asking the Rossis for a peek at a guest’s private information. Plus they’d wonder why Faith didn’t ask Olivia outright.

She was sure Olivia’s room would be locked, but she also thought the key to her and Tom’s room would work—all the locks were the same vintage. She walked to the end of the hall where she’d seen Olivia’s name on a door, slipped the key in, and turned. It was almost too simple. Yes, she should not be doing this and yes, she wasn’t going to tell Tom, but she was doing it for Freddy. There was a tangle of loose ends surrounding Miss Olivia and it was time to tie some together.

The room was a smaller version of theirs—no balcony, but a spectacular view across the valley and walls painted the color of lavender honey—gold with a slight amethyst sheen. Olivia