The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,54
with the exception of two antique Empire side chairs upholstered in dark green with tiny gold bees woven into the damask, a nod to the country of his birth? But the focal point of the room was an Empire writing desk complete with lion’s-paw feet and ormolu trim celebrating the emperor’s Egyptian campaign. Luke gestured toward it.
“When I sit at my desk, I can see the entire valley. And the desk itself was made for the space by a craftsman you may meet tomorrow in Montepulciano. It is an exact reproduction of one Napoleon had.”
Terry Russo was obviously impressed. “I went with some of my girlfriends to the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina and they had a lot of his things. Real ones, but this looks just like them. This is just as nice,” she added hastily, lest her host think she was criticizing the copy and stumbled on. “He was short, right? They kept referring to him as ‘The Little Corsican.’ ”
Luke looked amused. “An affectionate term for my fellow, that is, the fine fellow . . .”
Constance, never one to shy away from interrupting to talk about what she wanted, did so. “Ah yes, Napoleon. Well, what I want to know is who did all these divine ceilings? Surely not some little man in the village.”
Uninterested in hearing Constance enthuse, Faith moved to examine the desk more closely and then closer still, riveted by what was on top. She’d know it anywhere. One corner worn, but more telling, the discoloration from the wine that he’d spilled when he’d poured some into their glasses. Into their glasses at Hostaria Giggetto, a scant four days ago.
It was Freddy’s notebook.
CHAPTER 7
Normally there were few things Faith Fairchild liked better than seeing other people’s houses. She shared this trait with her mother-in-law, who admitted as well to a secret passion for looking into a home’s lighted rooms at night—“just like watching a play.” Together they had enjoyed many a house tour, and Fairchild Realty, the family business, had provided additional fodder. Faith often thought she should have gone into real estate herself, although recently a Realtor friend had pointed out that there was much more to it than opening closet doors, and some of it not so much fun.
Now, in one of the most spectacular houses she had ever been in—they were on their way to a wing that included a screening room and home gym—Faith might just as well have been viewing the Port Authority Bus Terminal.
How did Freddy’s notebook get from Rome to Luke’s house? Her immediate thought was that the Frenchman had to be involved in Freddy’s death, but as she walked blindly behind the others it occurred to her that this could be a case of hiding in plain sight. She had mentioned Freddy’s name last night at dinner, she realized, thereby establishing the relationship. Someone, say Olivia, might not have known the connection and, knowing it now, decided to quickly get rid of anything linking herself to the dead man, especially since she had been spotted with the killer. Granted it hadn’t been in Olivia’s room when Faith had searched it, but the young woman had been wearing those pants with all the pockets down in the kitchen and the notebook was small, easy to fit in one. Why not throw the book into a field or the trash? Things like this often had a way of inconveniently turning up again. And besides, putting it on someone else’s desk where Faith or Tom would surely see it this morning pointed a finger another way.
But how? Or rather when?
They were climbing a staircase to the second floor. Faith had a fleeting impression of walls the color of polenta passing by as her thoughts churned. In fact, any one of the people here could have done it. When they’d arrived, Luke had indicated a door and said if anyone needed a bathroom, that was the closest to where they would be lunching. It was next to the library. Easy enough to excuse oneself and slip the notebook onto the desk while ostensibly using the facilities. And, Faith thought back, everyone had. Whether from necessity or curiosity, each guest save Faith herself had made use of the bathroom before sitting down to lunch or during it, Len Russo going so far as to announce, “Have to see a man about a horse,” before heading indoors.
They were all at the hotel in Rome. They were all here. They were all suspects.