The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,83

getaways with hubby, who was equally dedicated to the pursuit of the next rung until the ladder stopped—where? Some kind of ultimate stratospheric corner office? Hope had been born with advanced organizational skills—sorting M&M’s by color had been mere child’s play on the way to a BlackBerry and smart phone, with Skype to check in with little Quentin as soon as he came home from school each day.

And on top of everything, it was impossible to hate her because she was an absolute darling.

“What’s wrong?” Hope had answered the phone before the end of the first ring.

Since it was 3 A.M. New York time, she knew Faith wasn’t calling to chat about Chianti DOCs.

“It’s complicated—and I’ll explain when I get home—but I need you to do something for me as soon as you get into the office.”

Another nice thing about Hope was that she never wasted time with unnecessary questions.

“You have people at work who are fluent in Italian, right?”

“Several.”

“I need someone to call the box office of the Teatro Verdi on Via Giuseppe Verdi in Florence and buy me a ticket for whatever performances they have tomorrow, Friday, May thirteenth. There may be both a matinee and an evening concert. I don’t have access to a schedule.”

“Just the one ticket?”

“Just one and in the front row or near the front of the first balcony, or the equivalent—someplace where I can see as much of the theater as possible. Have the ticket left at the box office under my name.” She didn’t worry about being so specific. Hope would pull it off.

“I’ll be going in at six, so it won’t take long after that,” Hope said.

Faith had learned years ago when her sister first started working in this totally alternate universe that normal working hours didn’t apply. Until she made partner, Hope slept most nights on a couch in her office. Finding an Italian speaker this early in the morning would not pose a problem.

“Thanks. And don’t worry.”

“Whenever you say this, I know you’re in trouble or will be soon. Are you sure I don’t need to do anything else?”

“Yes! I almost forgot. I need the address of the British consulate in Florence. I have the American one.”

Faith didn’t want to use the computer downstairs anymore. Maybe she was being paranoid—or maybe she was just being smart.

“Okay. That I can do immediately. And I’ll get you the name of a contact. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

“Best to text everything from now on. The address and the performance or performances.”

They’d be leaving for the weekly market in the village soon, and she needed to go back downstairs. She didn’t want her phone ringing. She didn’t want to draw any attention to herself or what she was about to do whatsoever.

“Love you, Hope.”

“Love you, too—and be careful, please.”

“I’m always careful. Bye.”

Her sister ended the call, but not before Faith heard the heavy sigh traveling through cyberspace.

The village market presented the same alluring panoply of food, enticing to eye and mouth, as the Mercato Centrale, but was much smaller. Tables were spread out under an octagonal timbered roof held up by brickwork columns. Francesca told them that there had been a market on this spot for centuries and that parts of the current structure went back to the Middle Ages.

Faith liked the way some tables had set out a few simple offerings—radishes pulled an hour or so ago, spring onions, lettuces, jars of honey—while others were clearly outlets for larger producers that traveled to the various hill town markets. These offered samples of cheeses and salamis. The sellers’ cries urging buyers to “Mangia, mangia” were hard to resist. All the purveyors were dressed in a layered assortment of aprons, tee shirts that proclaimed team favorites, caps, and bandannas.

She found herself walking with the Russos. She realized she knew very little about them other than where they lived, that Len was in “waste management,” Terry a Twilight fan—and they seemed unhappy. Normally she would have asked about their family, whether they had kids, and did they grow up in Livingston, New Jersey? Faith had dear friends who had. Maybe they knew them? She was always fascinated by people’s stories and she would already have found out this sort of information. The week had been anything but normal, though. Asking now would take her mind off the Teatro Verdi—and Tom.

“Did you both grow up in Livingston?”

Terry shook her head. “Len is from Verona, not far from Livingston, and I was born in Philadelphia,