The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,84

but my parents moved to West Orange, New Jersey, when I was a baby. I’m a Jersey girl, though all these reality shows have been giving people the wrong idea about us.”

“I know you don’t pump gas,” Faith said. “And I know why—it’s against the law in New Jersey to pump your own gas, male or female.”

Terry laughed. “The first time I went to a gas station in another state—it was New York—I sat in the car waiting for a long time, thinking they were on the phone or something. Finally a guy came out and wanted to know if I was going to start paying rent. Then he saw the plates and said, ‘Oh, you’re from Jersey.’ He was nice about it and showed me how to fill the tank.”

“Oregon, too,” Len said. “Not that I’ve been there. In Jersey, the law was passed in the 1940s so people wouldn’t blow themselves up, like smoke when they were pumping. Personally I like it. Nothing wrong with being waited on, and our gas isn’t any more expensive than other states.”

“I like it, too, mainly because it’s the only time I ever do get waited on,” Terry said.

Faith quickly interjected, “How about kids? We have two, a teen and a tween.”

The couple looked daggers at each other and there was a long pause before Terry answered. “Oh yes, we have kids. Three great ones. Len Junior works for Prudential, Jennifer got married last summer—she’s a nurse at Saint Barnabas—and our baby, Frankie, has one more year of college. He’s at Drew University. They all chipped in to give us this trip for our anniversary. Our thirtieth.”

“That’s wonderful!” Faith said. “As I think my husband mentioned, it’s our anniversary trip, too, although not the thirtieth yet. Congratulations!”

They were still looking at each other with undisguised antipathy, suggesting there wouldn’t be a thirty-first.

“Everything was paid for, and anyway,” Terry said. “I didn’t want to tell them—”

If he could have clapped a hand over his wife’s mouth without drawing even more attention to what was an increasingly awkward situation, Faith was sure Len Russo would have. What he did do was interrupt.

“Your husband was in a big hurry this morning.”

“You saw him? When?” Suddenly Faith wasn’t at all interested in the Russos’ marital problems or whether she had Livingston friends in common with them.

“It was early. I was in the bathroom using the, well, I was in the bathroom, and I looked out the window. He was tearing up the path behind the house like there was no tomorrow.”

“Was he alone?” The market disappeared from her thoughts. Two people had seen Tom rushing off. Constance and now Len. To Siena? Or someplace connected to Friday the thirteenth, the date in Freddy’s note.

“Didn’t see anybody else, but I wasn’t taking any pictures.”

Tom was heading up the path, which meant he was on his way here, to the village, most likely. Buses went not only to Siena but also to a number of other places—including Florence.

Len’s phrase reminded Faith that she wanted to get photos of the class, surreptitiously. She left the Russos to their bickering.

How do spies do it? she wondered a few minutes later. She’d been able to get a shot of Sky and Jack, ducking quickly out from behind one of the columns. Olivia was seemingly intent on an array of red, turban-shaped tomatoes, and she sneaked one of her. But the others were proving difficult. Francesca solved the problem by calling, “Everyone, could you gather here by me and we’ll decide what to cook tonight, now that you’ve had a chance to see what’s here.”

Faith was able to snap the whole group from behind a table with baskets of potatoes, the soil still clinging to the skins—red, purple, yellow, shades of brown—before joining them. They’d added a pair of petite, attractive women to the group, who, hearing English, must have thought it was a tour the village was providing. No one dissuaded them, but realizing their mistake, they tried to leave with blushing apologies. Francesca insisted they stay and quickly gave them cards for Cucina della Rossi.

“Has anything caught your eye?” Francesca asked her students.

“The asparagus looks wonderful and we haven’t done a dish with that yet,” Olivia said. “Maybe use it in a few ways?”

“I love that idea,” Sally said. “A celebration of asparagi!”

“We could use it in risotto for Il Primo—I want to do another one that you will make,” Francesca said. “And then it’s so good roasted and wrapped