The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,88

tell him we will save some risotto. It is even better the next day.”

“I doubt he’ll call again. You know how he is about roaming charges. And yes, risotto is great the next day. I like to make it into cakes and fry them in olive oil. Tom has been known to scoop up risotto straight from the fridge to eat cold.” Faith kept her voice light. “Now, what are we cooking?”

While impossible to keep the fact that her husband was being held captive by hooded kidnappers not all that far away, Faith found that the act of cooking, of preparing food, was having its usual soothing effect on her. Gianni had purchased fresh branzino, Mediterranean sea bass. Francesca was describing how they would stuff it with lemons, rosemary, and slivers of leeks and either bake or grill, depending on what the class decided.

“You want to try to get a whole fish with the head and tail if possible and also have it cleaned and slit up the side. It is very easy to tell if fish is fresh.” She pointed to her nose. “This is the best test, but also look at it. Old fish doesn’t have bright shiny skin. If you can, also give it a poke with your finger. It shouldn’t be spongy.”

The class wanted it grilled, and Faith knew it would be delicious—the skin nice and crunchy.

She began to feel as though she was a sleepwalker, here but not really here, as she listened to and went through all the risotto-making steps, even adding her own favorite professional make-ahead tip—reserve about a cup and a half of the liquid, remove the risotto from the heat when al dente, spread it on a baking sheet or pan, cover, refrigerate for up to two hours, and then reheat it, adding the liquid and whatever else the recipe called for, in tonight’s case, the asparagus with grated cheese.

Time marched on at a crawl. The asparagi assumed a number of forms, then suddenly the hours fast-forwarded and in succession she was at the table; they were eating; it got dark outside; and now she was standing by the window in her room dressed in a black tee shirt, dark jeans, her hair tucked up into Tom’s navy Red Sox cap, waiting.

Then waiting some more.

After dinner, she’d found what she assumed was Jack’s newspaper in the lounge and had taken it up with her. There was nothing of note on the front page and inside a page was missing. It seemed to be the one that listed what was going on in various cities—including Florence? Could Jack and Sky be Jean-Luc’s coconspirators? Or perhaps the couple was simply planning to do something in Rome before their flight back to the States.

At two o’clock she decided everyone must surely be asleep, and besides, she couldn’t stand to wait any longer. All night she had tried to decide whether the feeling she was being watched was paranoia or real. Jean-Luc knew where Tom was, but he didn’t know Faith knew. He obviously knew the kidnappers had gotten in touch with her, since he was one of them and he may even have been amused at the story she concocted to explain his absence—whooping it up among illuminated manuscripts in Siena. The story that would reassure him that she was doing nothing. He also didn’t know she knew he was responsible. She was conscious of not behaving any differently with him, or anyone else, throughout the evening. The effort had been exhausting.

It wasn’t raining, but it was overcast, and as she slipped out the back door, Faith was grateful for the lack of illumination. Trying not to think of grass snakes, or especially vipers, she walked parallel to the path in the underbrush instead of on it to avoid being spotted. She had no idea where the old farm buildings might be, but they’d have to be well behind Jean-Luc’s house. She remembered coming down the path at what now seemed like years ago, but was only Monday, and not seeing any signs of them when they’d glimpsed the roof of the large villa.

Every once in a while she turned the flashlight on briefly to search for signs of an old drive. Shortly after she passed the villa, she found what appeared to have once been some kind of cart track. If it didn’t lead anywhere, she would return and keep going.

The zanzare, mosquitoes, now were out in full force, and Faith wished she’d