Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,40

into an open-air market on our way back to the hotel, so we were making our way down a narrow street that knifed between two cramped rows of merchant tents and stalls, bumping and grinding with men who had cell phones grafted to their ears and women sporting skintight pants, spike heels, skinny tops, bare midriffs, and overinflated bosoms. The Miracle Bra was obviously a big seller in Florence.

Chirrup chirrup. Chirrup chirrup.

I fished my phone out of my bag. "Hello?"

"Did you mean to cut me off last night?" Etienne asked with mild amusement.

"Hi, sweetie. I'm so sorry!" Jackie rolled her eyes and gathered all her packages out of my arms, then scissored two fingers at me to indicate she was going to wander around while I talked. I gave her a thumbs-up and cradled my phone more tightly against my ear. "I should have called you back, but I had all these...fires to put out."

"More fires?" A pause. "I don't mean to alarm you, Emily, but --"

"No, no. Not real fires. That's just an expression. Like 'kicking the bucket.' " I smiled with sudden inspiration. "Or 'jumping your bones.' "

Another pause. " 'Jumping your bones'? I've never heard that before. Tell me what it means."

"Unh-uh," I whispered seductively. "I'd rather show you."

"You...KRRRRRRKKK...me, darling."

"Your voice is breaking up. Hello?"

"...in Italy. Tell me quickly, are you enjoying the people in the tour group?"

"I'm running into some real characters." Some of whom I might trust more if I knew a little more about them. Which prompted a brilliant idea. "Etienne, would you be willing to do me a huge favor? We're conducting a contest, and we'd like to make sure all the contestants are playing by the same ground rules, so could you run a few background checks for us?"

"That's highly irregular, darling."

"Yeah, but we don't want anyone taking unfair advantage. It's really important. There's a substantial cash prize involved."

KRRRKKK. "...I'm getting into, but, I'm not sure how to refuse you."

"I knew I could count on you. Thank you so much. Do you have a pencil? Here are the names and this is what I need to know."

When I finished, he waited a beat, then sighed. "I'll see what I can do but --" KRRRRRRKKKK. KRRRKK.

"Etienne? Hello? Are you there?" I winced at the static and held the phone away from my ear, staring at it dismally. It wasn't my imagination. No matter what we tried to do, we were constantly being interrupted. Aargh! I was too rational to call it a curse, but "hex" was a definite possibility.

I stuffed the phone back into my shoulder bag and rotated in place, looking for Jackie, but instead spied Fred Arp hanging out in front of a stall layered with pallets of leather briefcases, shoulder bags, handbags, clutch purses, and backpacks in every jellybean color except tutti-frutti. He was holding two handbags in the air while a fierce, beefy guy with wild hair and bristly eyebrows barked Italian at him from behind the counter. I shivered at the clerk. If he was green, he'd be mistaken for the Incredible Hulk.

"Hi, Fred," I said, coming up beside him. "Buying something for your wife?"

He jumped at the sound of my voice and shot me a frightened look from beneath the brim of his hat. "I don't have a wife."

"Girlfriend?"

He shook his head. "No girlfriend either." His cheeks flushed pink. "I've never really dated much."

No surprise there.

The clerk growled something unintelligible that caused Fred's nerves to fray even more. "I want to bring something home to my mother, but I don't know how practical a handbag is. She doesn't get out much anymore. And I'm not sure what this guy is trying to tell me, but he's getting spittle all over his merchandise."

"Maybe I can help." I made eye contact with the clerk and smiled. "Do you speak English?"

He made a broad gesture toward the street, then made a hook of his right index finger and stuck it between his teeth.

"Scandinavian languages?"

He bit down harder on his finger, which told me nothing other than he was probably current with his ten-year tetanus booster.

"Uff da," I tossed out, trying to dazzle him with my multi-lingual expertise.

He stared at me, looking a tad confused.

Okay. Maybe French. "Sacre bleu," I said with authority.

He made a guttural sound in response.

Having exhausted my entire vocabulary of Norwegian and French, I resorted to my only remaining option. "You betcha," I said in flawless Minnesotan.

Another hand gesture. Several animal growls. I grabbed Fred by the